We Are Pilots
by shirozora
Summary: There's no one right way to change the world. When Sam and Quorra run into a dead end she suggests returning to the Grid to find the answers. What he discovers is a Grid that needs his help to rebuild, and Tron, who needs his help to be himself again.
1. 1

**Disclaimer:** All television shows, movies, books, and other copyrighted material referred to in this work, and the characters, settings, and events thereof, are the properties of their respective owners. As this work is an interpretation of the original material and not for-profit, it constitutes fair use. Reference to real persons, places, or events are made in a fictional context, and are not intended to be libelous, defamatory, or in any way factual.

**Author's Note:** This was written for the prompt "Sam/Tron. Post movie. Something dealing with Tron's inevitable guilt. Sam trying to make him see that he can't hold himself responsible for anything he did under the influence of all that corrupted code." at the Tron Kink Meme.

**We Are Pilots**

**1**

He doesn't really notice his restlessness. He thinks it's the winds of change, moving from largest shareholder to the man in charge of ENCOM, the wayward son stepping into the too-large shoes of his visionary father. He thinks it's the miracle that is Quorra, watching her wide-eyed awe and wonder at the world around her. He thinks it's the move from the old Dumont shipping compartments by the river to a loft downtown, a respectable home for someone who rides an old Ducati to work.

It might be the dreams and nightmares that wracked his nights for weeks and weeks. How does one forget the night he found and lost his father? How does one move beyond the aged face staring at him with so much grief, regret, and wanting, saying his name like he's just an illusion? The lights of TRON City reach for the stormy sky as he takes his first uncertain step on the Grid. Clu laughs at him as the Black Guard haul him away to the lightcycle arena, his father's voice echoing around the walls.

_"I'm not your father, Sam."_

He'd wake up soaked in sweat, sheets tangled around his legs and Marvin sitting at the foot of the bed, cowering and whimpering while Sam got up and went to the bathroom to splash cold water on his face and neck. Then he'd stare at his reflections, water sliding down his face and dripping from his chin.

He always shivered at the fear in his eyes.

* * *

><p>It got better.<p>

He busied himself with overhauling ENCOM from the top, diving into the work his father left lying around his old office and the dingy room under the arcade, trying to understand what Flynn meant when he said that Quorra could change the world.

He laughed the first time Quorra yawned, had a beer, had a cup of coffee, had juice, had a cheeseburger, went shopping, rode a glass elevator, found out that Jules Verne had been dead for over a century, tried out the dusty arcade games. He smiled as she complained about the unnecessary details that made up a User's life, from flossing her teeth to watching her manners so that she didn't offend ENCOM's new board of directors, tried valiantly to explain how in the real world a sentence can mean ten different things. He hugged her when she said she missed the Grid and her fellow ISOs, held her close while she cried. When she talked about the cycles she spent under Flynn's tutelage he withdrew deep into his mind and told himself that jealous was unbecoming.

Sometimes she'd notice his silence and take his hand in hers. "He always talked about you, Sam. Always said he'd give everything up - and I mean _everything_- for just one more day with you."

He'd look down at their linked hands, turn his over and lace their fingers together, and swallow hard.

"Yeah."

In those moments he could feel the shape of the microchip resting against his collarbone, and would pretend that in a way his father was still with him.


	2. 2

**We Are Pilots**

**2**

Six months.

The restlessness is an itch, an uneasy sensation not unlike the feeling of being out of place, like he doesn't quite fit inside his own skin.

"Maybe you just miss planning and executing your yearly prank on the company," Dillinger, Jr. cracks during a late-night meeting.

"Ha, ha," Sam says as he quits his current game of virtual go.

Quorra just looks owlishly between them, clearly wondering if there's a hidden meaning in Dillinger's words.

"It's a long story," Sam explains.

She nods uncertainly and then brings up the list of complaints people made about the latest OS. Together she and Dillinger explain how they're going to approach the complaints, which glitches to address in the service packs, and the need to expand the number of beta testers. Sam watches Quorra excitedly pull up a file on the table and point out the details, loves her enthusiasm for her job here. In the past six months she had gone from a curious, fresh-faced intern to one of ENCOM's best programmers; when Alan asked him where the hell he found her Sam only smiled and said, "Showed up at my door one day and I took her in."

His father's rescue, the last ISO, the Miracle.

Soon he'll have to decide whether to continue rooting through the old files or start tests on her to figure out exactly how Quorra will change everything. He thinks there's something biologically unique about her, and with the way his father went on about revolutionizing medicine, maybe-

"-Sam? _Sam._"

He starts. Quorra and Dillinger are staring at him. He blinks again and they're still there, staring at him. Slowly Quorra sits back down and starts putting the files away, knowing what he's going to say.

"Sorry." Sam kneads his temples like he's tired. "It's been a long day. Why don't we-why don't we wrap it up and finish this in the morning?"

Dillinger hesitates, and then nods. "We can do that." He stands up and starts shutting down the tabletop computer.

Quorra gives Sam an accusing glare as they leave the room.

* * *

><p>Marvin looks windblown as Sam searches for the right key. It's a breezy night and Sam commends himself on grabbing his leather jacket on his way out for the late night walk.<p>

Quorra is sitting on the couch as he shuts the door behind him and unclips the leash from Marvin's collar. She's staring blankly at the TV mounted on the wall; library books, her Kindle, and small boxes of apple juice litter the coffee table.

"Hey," he says as he tosses the keys on the counter and hangs his jacket on the coat hook. "Shouldn't you…" He glances at his watch. "…be in bed?"

"I could." Quorra picks up the remote and turns off the TV. Then she turns and looks at him, icy blue eyes flicking from the top of his head down to his shoes. "Sam, do you...do you want to talk?"

Strange question, coming from her. He wavers at the doorway, then slowly walks to the fridge. She watches him, unblinking, and it's always a little eerie. "Why?"

"You just...you seem weird." She tilts her head, fingertips on her chin and cheek. "You seem...what's the word for it...disconnected."

"Have a lot on my mind." He grabs a can of beer and holds it up. "Want one?"

She makes a face and he chuckles, shuts the fridge and pops the can as he sits on the loveseat next to Marvin.

"Marv, off the couch."

Marvin ignores him.

"Are you-" Quorra stops, taps her index fingers together, and contemplates her next words. "It's about what Flynn wanted to do, isn't it? "

He raises an eyebrow. "What?"

"It's been six months. When you're not busy with ENCOM you're going through his old files and spending nights at the arcade. Have you found anything?"

He shakes his head and tips the contents of the can into his mouth. He swallows, stares out at the city's bright lights. His voice is rough when he confesses, "No."

Quorra presses her lips together as she looks at the last unopened juice box. "Maybe he left his ideas elsewhere."

He nods and tilts the can from side to side. He's thought about it more than once but he can't think of another place Flynn stored his notes at.

"Maybe he left them somewhere in the Grid."

Sam stops swirling the contents of the beer can and looks at her. Quorra hasn't talked about the Grid in over a month. Then he realizes that he hasn't talked about it either. As the dreams and nightmares faded and Quorra integrated into the world of the Users they stopped looking back on That Night. It seemed better that way for the both of them.

His free hand reaches for the microchip around his neck; his fingers run over it under his shirt as he considers her implied suggestion.

"You think he left something back at that house in the Outlands?" Sam asks.

She nods as she pokes a plastic straw in the juice box. "I think so."

Quorra noisily sucks on the straw while he tugs the chain out and holds up the chip. He never considered the possibility of going back. Quorra has always been the focus, the point, the Miracle; there's nothing for her in the Grid but there are infinite possibilities for her _here_.

"You think there's anything left?" he asks. "After-after what happened?"

"I don't know. The reintegration isn't powerful enough to reboot the entire system. The house should still be standing, along with TRON City."

Sam sighs and nods as he makes his decision, drains the beer and sets it next to the pile of empty juice boxes.

"Wanna go to the arcade?"

* * *

><p>As he switches on the lights in the old arcade Quorra leans against the jukebox, arms crossed, still watching him.<p>

"What?"

"I was talking with Ed the other day-"

"'Ed'? You mean Dillinger?"

Kansas starts blasting from the jukebox's old speakers as the arcade games come to life. Sam glances down the aisle at the lone machine on the wall under the upstairs office.

"Yes, Dillinger, Jr." Quorra pokes at a few buttons on the jukebox before following him down the aisle to the TRON game. "We were discussing subroutines and I-I may have said that you seemed restless."

Sam pushes the machine and the game slides on its hinges. He leans against it, arms folded over his chest, and tilts his head to Quorra. "Restless?"

"Was that the wrong word?"

He shrugs. "You tell me."

"Sam." Quorra walks up to him and places a hand on his shoulder. "I'm worried. And I'm not the only one. When I told Ed he said some other people were wondering, too."

"They're worried I'm _restless_?"

"He said...he said some of the people in the company were around when Flynn was first trapped in the Grid. What does that mean?"

Sam knows exactly what Dillinger meant. He grew up surrounded by questions about what Flynn was doing right up until his disappearance, questions about his dedication to his son and company, questions about his increasingly erratic behavior. If Sam is starting to act "off" the old guard has every right to worry. Unfortunately they still had some pull - and it wasn't like Sam could sack everyone when he took over ENCOM - and if Sam lost his position it'll make changing the world a lot harder than it already is.

"It means some people aren't too hot about me waltzing into the building and calling the shots when six months ago I broke into the tower and put the latest OS online for free."

"So what does that have to do with you being..." Quorra gestures at the air. "I want to say 'glitching' but that's not the right word."

Sam smiles and places his hand over hers. "I'm fine. Just have a lot on my mind. If I find Dad's plans everything will be okay."

He opens the hidden door and gestures inside. "After you."

The room under the arcade has been dusted, rearranged, and organized since Sam first came upon it. There are new couches and a mini fridge next to the TV mounted on the wall. Of course Sam rarely watches it when he's down here; he's more interested in the touchscreen table and the files that littered the other table.

Quorra tosses her backpack on the couch while he turns on the computer and starts typing in commands.

"It actually looks nice," she says.

"Yeah, well, didn't want to keep sneezing all over the place."

He hears her cross the room to the servers. "Did you upgrade anything?"

"No." He pauses. "Just extended the time the digitizer stays on."

She doesn't say anything and he almost turns around to explain himself. Quorra beats him to the punch, saying, "You really did plan on going back."

He shrugs. "Not really. I don't know. I just thought, you know, just in case…"

Quorra doesn't push the subject; instead, she walks up to the table and leans over his shoulder, reading the command lines.

"How long do you plan on being down there?"

He pauses and looks up at her. "You're not coming with me?"

"Someone needs to make sure the portal stays open on the other side," she says. "And I think you know what to look for."

She's not meeting his eyes. She's even standing out of the way of the digitizer, like she's _really _not interested in going into the Grid. He glances at her left upper arm, remembering the glowing symbol that marked her as an ISO. It doesn't show here.

"You don't want to go back," he says, carefully leaning against the table so that he doesn't accidentally activate the digitizer.

"Well, I-I do miss it. It was my home. I guess it's just that...there's nothing there for me now." Quorra walks back to the couch and sits down. "I guess I moved on." She gives him a weak smile. "Time's faster in the Grid; you can probably find the files in an hour."

"If they're there at all," Sam says. He leans forward, elbows on his knees, staring at the concrete floor. "Give me two hours. You okay with waiting?"

Quorra unzips the backpack and pulls out the Kindle she bought with her own money and a plastic bag of juice boxes. "I'll be fine."

"Getting cozy with Jules Verne, huh?"

He laughs when her face turns red.

"How about I leave you in the Grid for the entire night," she mutters as she shakes a juice box and pries the straw off of it.

Chuckling, Sam turns back to the table and types in the last command line. "You know what to do, right?"

"Of course," Quorra says. "Sam."

"Yeah?"

When she doesn't say anything else he looks over his shoulder, then slowly turns the chair around to face her. She twirls the straw between her fingers as she looks at him.

"Be careful. With Clu gone, who knows what TRON City is like."

Sam hasn't considered that. Without Clu – without Flynn - there's a power vacuum in the Grid. He could be heading straight into chaos.

But what other option does he have? He wants to do what his father couldn't but the how-to isn't here and Flynn never had the time to sit him down and tell him exactly how the ISOs will change the world. Now that he knows that this is affecting him more than he thought he needs to find the answer as soon as possible, make due on his promise, and move on. If this means going into the Grid, then so be it.

"I'll be fine, Q," he says, and activates the digitizer.


	3. 3

**We Are Pilots**

**3**

One nice thing about his second visit to the Grid is that he doesn't have to deal with being dragged into a Recognizer and hauled off to the Games, where he'd be stripped by the Sirens - not that he minds - and suited up before being shoved into the gladiatorial games. Sam reaches behind him for his Light Disc and finds himself sighing in relief as he feels it hum under his fingertips. The bare room glows bluish white as he rises to his feet and looks down at himself.

"I'm a freaking lava lamp," he mutters as he turns his left arm over.

His white circuitry illuminates the floor and walls as he leaves the small room and makes his way upstairs. Outside, this sector of the city seems as cold, dark, and empty as the first time he was here. Sam looks up at the soaring skyscrapers and the dark sky and then drops his gaze to the massive intersection in front of him. His eyes fall on the program leaning against a lightcycle parked on the curb and his stomach drops.

_Oh fuck._

"User," Rinzler says as he pushes off the lightcycle; it collapses back into a baton and he slides it into the holster on the outside of his thigh as he walks towards Sam.

"Oh no." Sam steps back, reaching for his Light Disc. "I thought you died."

Rinzler stops and tilts his head to the side. He still hasn't pulled out his Light Discs yet. He's not in a crouch, ready for battle. "I didn't. I am..." He bows his helmeted head as his hands clench and unclench. "I am..."

Rinzler's circuitry is blue.

Sam slowly lowers his arm as he realizes there isn't going to be a fight. He suddenly remembers watching Rinzler take his light jet out of the race to the portal and deliberately crash into Clu, allowing them to land safely. When he saw only Clu standing in their way at the platform he thought Rinzler was dead-

_Not Rinzler. You're not Rinzler._

His father's heartbroken voice whispers a name in his head as Sam remembers the stories Flynn used to tell about the Grid, the name that haunted him all his life even when he wasn't looking.

"Dad called you Tron."

Rinzler-_Tron _jerks his head up and takes an involuntary step back; he turns away while the helmet rapidly retracts, revealing a dark head of hair. Sam hadn't expected this - in his dreams Rinzler was always a black and orange helmeted gladiator, Clu's enforcer, and he was always the one who broke the floor of the cage and sent Sam falling to his death.

"You can call me Tron, too," the program says quietly and turns back around.

Sam stares at Tron's face, not quite sure how to react. Tron returns the gaze steadily, as if daring _him _to say something, do something, anything.

Sam ends up blurting out, "You look like Alan."

Tron's eyes widen. "You also know Alan-1?"

"Alan-1?"

"My User." Tron steps forward and Sam forces himself to stay still, reminds himself that this isn't Rinzler and he's not in danger, yet. "_Former _User. He created me."

"Oh. Uh, yeah. Alan-1. I know him. He helped take care of me while Dad was trapped here..." Sam trails off as Tron turns away, eyes dropping to the ground and shoulders slumping forward.

"I see," Tron says quietly.

Sam doesn't quite see it. He leans forward, trying to catch Tron's attention, but it's the program who suddenly snaps his head up and fixes his stern gaze on Sam. He takes another involuntary step back; this isn't at all what he expected - a young Alan Bradley's face on Rinzler's body. It's pretty freaky.

"Why are you here?" Tron asks.

"I'm looking for something." It suddenly dawns on him that his father might have told Tron what the ISOs could do in his world. "Did Dad ever tell you what he was going to do with the ISOs?"

There. A flinch. Tron doesn't look at him. He stares at the building across the street, head cocked like he's listening for something. Then the program closes his eyes and heaves a sigh. "Isomorphic Algorithms. The Miracle."

"Yeah, I know. Did he tell you what he wanted to do with them?"

Tron smiles wistfully as he looks at Sam. "Change the game. Change _everything_. That's what he kept saying but we never got far. Not when…when they didn't agree on what to do with them."

Oh.

Sam swallows hard and looks away, unable to handle the pain and distance in Tron's eyes. "Okay. Well, I have to see if Dad left anything here. Q and I didn't get far with the 'changing the world' thing and we're running out of options."

"You need to get to the Outlands," Tron says as he turns and starts walking down the sidewalk. "The lightcycles can't handle the terrain but all known light runners were destroyed. We'll be lucky to find one."

Sam stares at his back and then quickly follows the program across the street. "What does that mean?"

Tron gestures down the street. "Long before the Purge programs started disappearing from this sector. There's a reason why this place is still abandoned."

Something suddenly flashes in the space between them and Sam reflexively reaches out to catch or deflect it. He stares at the lightcycle baton and then up at Tron.

"There's a neutral sector not far from here," Tron says, gesturing in a direction with another baton. "It'll be faster and safer by lightcycle."

"Neutral sector?"

_"With Clu gone, who knows what TRON City is like."_

"Tron, did something happen?" Sam asks. _Did something else…what aren't you saying?_

The program doesn't answer; instead he rezzes a lightcycle into exist and streaks down the street. Sam frowns at Tron's evasiveness while he runs after the blue blur and pulls the baton apart; his helmet forms around his head, visor sliding over his face as the lightcycle materializes underneath him. The wind's knocked out of him as he lands on the lightcycle, and it's the speed that takes his breath away.

There's something wonderful about riding lightcycles, especially when it's not a matter of life and death. They're sleek, streamlined, dazzling; he can _feel _the reckless speed as darkened buildings flit by. Sam finds himself relaxing as he tilts the lightcycle this way and that, following Tron through the streets and roundabouts. He pulls up alongside Tron, can't help but give the helmeted program a grin and a thumbs-up. Tron returns it with a slight nod and then angles their path towards the brighter sectors of TRON City.

It ends quite abruptly.

They're on a large highway separating this sector from the rest of this city – like the bridge he has to cross to get to the arcade back on his side - and blocking the way is a solid line of light. Tron suddenly pulls ahead and turns his lightcycle, blocking Sam and forcing him to stop. His heart slams in the back of his throat as he skids, overbalances, and tumbles to the ground. The lightcycle slides away and collapses back into a baton.

"What the fuck?" Sam groans as he pushes himself up into a sitting position. Then a strong hand grips his upper arm and hauls him to his feet.

"We have company," Tron says, nodding to the barrier of programs in front of them.

"No kidding," Sam mutters, then takes a step back as Tron positions himself in front of Sam.

A program steps forward, a green beam katana in hand. "Step away from the program, _Rinzler_."

Tron stiffens at the name but he doesn't move. Sam looks at the other programs, a mix of blue, green, white, and yellow circuitry against black armor. They don't have the friendliest faces; more than a few have cracks and holes in their heads, and Sam is suddenly reminded of the program that growled at him on the Recognizer six months ago.

A tall yellow program steps up and to the side. Tron shifts ever so slightly, keeping Sam behind him all the while. He bristles at Tron's apparent belief that he needs protecting but keeps his mouth shut.

"He's unusual," the yellow program says, tilting her head to the side. "Not a typical program."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Not _this _again."

"Don't say anything," Tron whispers.

"If they know what I am-"

"Remember what happened at the lightcycle arena?" Tron takes a small step to the left as a program shifts uneasily on her feet. Sam suddenly notices that the line of programs is becoming a circle. "Many programs are hostile to the Users. The only one they knew for cycles was Flynn; when he disappeared Clu started feeding everyone lies."

The program who called Tron "Rinzler" frowns. "Did you say 'User'? Identify yourself-"

"Leave him alone, Octane," the yellow program says sharply. "We're here for Rinzler. Why are we wasting time-"

"I'm not Rinzler," Tron says stiffly. He shifts positions, crouches defensively in front of Sam. "I don't want to fight you."

"If you're not Rinzler," Octane says, "then identify yourself."

The programs close ranks, forming a perfect circle around Sam and Tron. Sam starts reaching for his Light Disc, hisses, "We're surrounded."

Tron ignores him. "Let us go. I'm only escorting him to the neutral sector."

"That so?" Octane points at Sam with his beam katana. "He can go. You can't."

This is getting ridiculous. To be fair, Sam doesn't feel quite right around Tron - it's kind of hard to be at ease around a program who tried to kill him multiple times - and he wasn't even in the Grid for that long, has no idea what these programs and others in the city went through while Clu was in power and Tron-and _Rinzler _provided much of the terror. Right now, though, sticking with the blue-lit program seems like the safer option. These programs don't look like a very friendly welcoming party and Sam doesn't feel safe walking away from this growing mess by himself.

Plus, this is _Tron_. Kind of hard not to feel something for the character his father brought to life in all those bedtime stories, even if the stance he's taken right now screams of Rinzler.

"Look," Sam says, stepping around Tron to face Octane. "Rinzler or not, I need him-"

"Do you even know _who _Rinzler is?" another program spits out. "Do you know what he did to those of us who were faithful to the Creator?"

Sam holds his hands out in front of him as the program steps forward and takes out his disk. "Whoa. Hey, calm down-"

"Don't tell me to calm down!"

Tron throws an arm out across his chest, shoving Sam back as the incensed program flings his Light Disc. The programs on either side quickly restrain him but the damage is done; the green disk slices through the armor and bodysuit, breaking skin; Sam clamps a hand over it and swears as the disk boomerangs back to its program.

The air suddenly hums as Tron pulls his Light Discs apart; they blaze blue in his hands, an entrancing sight that makes Sam forget for just a second that they're in a really bad situation. Then Sam feels liquid heat seep through his fingers and swears again.

"Get up," Tron says. "We might have to fight our way out of this."

"Damn it," Sam groans as he rises to his feet.

He hesitates before letting go of his arm and reaching behind him for his Light Disc. Everyone's attention instantly goes to the bleeding gash and Sam steels himself for the inevitable.

"User," a program says.

"User."

"He's a User."

"I told you something was strange about him."

Sam looks around at their awestruck yet wary faces, then cranes his neck and looks for the star in the sky. He makes out rays of light behind backlit clouds that are as obvious as the Bat-Signal. Everyone on the Grid can see it. They know he's here but they didn't know exactly what they were looking for.

"What do you think you're doing with a User, Rinzler?" Octane demands, pointing his beam katana at Sam while looking at Tron. "Hand him over and we might just let you go."

"Hold on a second-"

Again Tron steps in front, putting himself between Sam and the massive program. "Get out of our way. I'm not asking again."

His threat is loud and clear, and the programs circling them shift uneasily. They're not pleased about the prospect of fighting Rinzler-_Tron _and a few look ready to back out and run. It doesn't make Sam feel any better, since most of the programs seem hell-bent on derezzing Tron regardless of who he is.

Sam grips his Light Disc tightly, feeling its thrumming power seep into his circuits. The odds aren't great - there are at least ten programs surrounding them and Sam isn't the best combatant on the Grid. He wishes Quorra is here and covering his back instead of sitting on the couch, draining juice boxes and digesting Descartes and Wittgenstein. He knows she isn't going to appear out of the blue, plowing through the programs in a light runner and rescuing him like the damsel in distress he apparently is; he resigns himself to going back-to-back with Tron, watching the circle of programs carefully and anticipating the first strike.

It comes when a green-lit program flings his Light Disc at Sam; Tron deflects it before he can and the disk ricochets away. Sam spots a program thrusting her beam katana at Tron and throws his Light Disc, knocking it out of her hands; on its return the disk cuts through her and she shatters into a million broken bits of code.

The highway explodes in a chaotic dance of light as the other programs attack; the assault focuses on Tron and that makes it easier for Sam to pick them off. Tron doesn't need help, though; he easily evades two Light Discs and throws his at the now-unarmed programs, derezzing them in explosions of code. He doesn't stop; as soon as the Light Discs return to his hands he leaps over a green program and kicks him in the back, sending him stumbling and off-balance towards Sam. Sam takes the invitation, slings his Light Disc like a frisbee, and then drops onto his stomach to avoid being beheaded by the tall yellow program's beam katana.

"Don't attack the User!" Octane orders as he dodges one of Tron's disks. "We want him alive, Sigma-"

"He's not on our side," she says and tries to strike him again. "If we don't derezz him we'll lose everything."

Sam rolls to the side and pushes himself back to his feet, hand stretching out for his Light Disc. As soon as it slams into his palm he throws himself out of her way, rolling on his shoulders - and aggravating the gash on his arm, _shit_. Tron leaps over him and deflects her next strike.

"Helmet up, Sam," Tron orders, turning his helmeted head towards him. Sam flinches from the close proximity, Rinzler's menacing image flitting through his mind, and the program freezes.

The delay is just enough for Sigma and another program to get the jump on Tron; as the helmet and visor rapidly assemble on his head Sam slams his leg into Tron's side and knocks him out of the way. The green Light Disc skims the surface of Sam's visor, leaving behind a few scratches.

"Too close," he huffs and quickly jumps back to his feet.

The nameless program's eyes widen right before Sam sends his Light Disc through his chest and one of Tron's goes through his abdomen. Sam grins at the security program through the cascade of broken coding and snatches his disk as it spins back to him.

Tron takes down two more programs before Octane decides that trying to derezz him isn't worth the losses. He, Sigma, and three programs pull out their batons and turn back to TRON City; another tries to follow them but Sam knocks the baton out of his hand and Tron finishes him off with a blow to the back of his neck.

Suddenly they're alone. Sam watches the five lightcycles disappear up the highway towards the towering skyscrapers of TRON City while the helmet retracts. Adrenaline still courses through him, heart pounding out a rapid staccato, and he starts circling the battleground, trying to walk it off.

"Shit..."

He stops and bends over, hands on his knees, gulping in more air. The arm with the gash trembles; he looks at the drying blood coating the bodysuit and prods the wound, grimacing as the dull burn becomes sharp and hot. He wipes the sweat off his face as he straightens his back and approaches Tron. "So what the hell was that?"

Rinzler's helmet tilts up towards him from where the program is crouched on the ground, sliding his fingers through the pieces of coding; Sam freezes, and then watches it rapidly retract to reveal Tron's concerned face. He almost looks like Alan from when Sam was seven and reeling from Flynn's disappearance. His eyes drop to the circuits on the program's sternum and he blinks rapidly as he reminds himself that this is Tron, not Alan, and certainly not Rinzler.

"They wanted you alive, meaning they thought you'd be useful."

"Useful? How? Why?"

Tron shakes his head, grabs a baton, and rises to his feet. "We shouldn't talk here."

"Come on, you can't leave it at that. I need some answers," Sam says. "What the hell happened here-"

"What happened," and suddenly Tron is in his face, a finger pressed against his chest, "is that without Flynn or Clu around the Grid became chaotic. Faulty. Program fighting program for control. You know how the system works; what do you think happens when you remove the master control program? The operating system?"

"Nothing else works," Sam says automatically. His body is heating up and he thinks he might have overexerted himself.

"Exactly." Tron presses a lightcycle baton into his hand and steps back. "Let's go. The neutral sector isn't far and there is someone there who can hide you while I find us a light runner."

Sam stares at the baton in his hand as he considers the program's words. While he and Quorra set out to change the world the system that he wore around his neck, the system in the servers under the arcade, the system that meant so much to his father, devolved. He can't imagine Flynn letting that happen, and Sam never bothered to check. He left it alone for six months while taking on ENCOM and unlocking Quorra's potential, and this is the result.

"Sorry."

Tron looks at him over his shoulder with a baffled expression and Sam winces at himself.

"For what?" the program asks.

"For not checking in on the Grid after...after what happened."

Tron stares at him for a long moment. "You had something important to do."

Sam frowns at the back of Tron's lightcycle as he follows the program across the now-deserted highway into TRON City, wondering when he'll get the answers he's looking for.

* * *

><p>"A light runner?" the dark-skinned Siren asks as she pushes two blue cocktails across the counter. She looks at Sam, then at Tron. "What do you need one for?"<p>

"It's not your business," Tron says as he studies the tall slender glass. He misses the Siren rolling her eyes at him.

Sam looks over his shoulder at the small club. He narrows his eyes at the MP3s DJing for the crowd of programs; the one with the cracked helmet seems to notice his attention, elbows its companion, and points at Sam. The other MP3 tilts its helmet his way and then gives him an acknowledging nod and a thumbs up. A bit confused, Sam tilts his glass in their direction and turns back around to the Siren, Crystal.

"Are they..."

She nods.

The crack in the MP3's helmet suggests that things at the End of Line Club went south soon after the epically disastrous meeting with Zuse. "And Gem? What happened to her?"

Crystal shakes her head. "She and Castor derezzed when Clu had the End of Line Club destroyed."

_After they gave him Dad's disk, _Sam thinks bitterly as he sips the cocktail. It feels a bit like drinking electricity; a warm, buzzing sensation slips down his throat and his circuitry's glow briefly intensifies, flooding his body with pleasant heat.

Crystal smiles at his circuits' reaction as she mixes a drink for a tipsy yellow program, who suddenly seems interested in Sam's short-lived light show.

"Haven't seen you around," he says, leaning in a little too close for Sam's comfort. "You new to the sector?"

Sam's glad the program is on his left side and not his right, where the blood from the gash is still visible. He's not interested in picking up more attention right now, especially the kind that's also interested in derezzing him and Tron. He also really needs to take care of the wound; despite the buzz he can feel it throb.

"Yeah," Sam says warily, watching the program as he takes another sip of the cocktail. "So?"

"Hey, I'm not suggesting anything. We're on the same side, aren't we? On the run, hiding from the factions ripping the Grid apart." The program shakes his head. "Whatever you did before's left at the door. Here, we forget about all that. We forget about everything, the Reintegration, the Purge, everything. Isn't that why you're here?"

He looks intently at Sam, yellow-green eyes boring into his head. Sam has a feeling the program isn't just drunk on energy cocktails and asking strangers questions. He keeps his mouth shut as he swirls the contents of his cocktail, watching the tiny ice cubes clink against each other. He waits for the program to pick it up and leave him alone, but that's not getting across; the program slides closer, says, "So what's your function?"

Apparently Tron's been listening to the entire exchange and come to the same conclusion as Sam did; he leans over, shoulder pressing against Sam's as he says, "I think you've asked enough questions."

"I'm a search program; that's what I'm supposed to do. But if you want him all to yourself, then go ahead. I can always look elsewhere."

The program picks up his cocktail, gives Crystal a wink, and purposefully strides back into the crowd of mostly white-lit programs. Tron cranes his neck around to make sure the nosy program hasn't doubled back and then leans on the counter, gesturing to Crystal. Her eyes flick around the area, looking for other possible eavesdroppers.

"Light runners are hard to come by," she says quietly. "Most of them were derezzed not long after the Reintegration. I can get you one, but it'll cost you."

"Like what?" Sam asks.

"I didn't come by this club without a bit of dealing with other programs," she says. "But I'll make it easy, since you're the son of the Creator and your needs are far greater than mine."

Crystal's face is suddenly inches from his, cool brown eyes staring right into him while she articulates each word with care. "Bring me Zuse's cane."

Zuse can't be alive. She said Castor and Gem died when the club was destroyed; there's no way to recover the damn thing. The Siren is fucking with him.

Tron shifts uneasily next to him. "We shouldn't discuss this here."

She smiles. "You're right." Then, loudly, "The bar's closed. Boys, crank it up."

The MP3s nod in unison and abruptly switches tracks; the beat becomes faster and louder, picking up interest from the programs at the bar. Crystal smiles at the MP3s as she says, "Let's talk shop in the back. Bring your drinks."

Sam watches her walk out behind the counter and round the corner into a small hallway but he doesn't move; he's wary for a good reason. Tron gives him a questioning look and Sam says, "Last time I did this they turned on us."

He wishes he didn't say anything at all when Tron looks away.

"Don't worry," the security program says quietly. "There won't be a problem this time."

* * *

><p>"I'm one of the few that know Zuse and Castor are the same program," Crystal says as she sits back in a white bubble chair. "And I'm one of the very few that know what he did."<p>

Sam watches Tron walk up to the transparent soundproof barrier and stare at the club scene out of the corner of his eye. He's is always on alert, always ready for a fight no matter the situation.

"Sit down, Sam Flynn," Crystal says and gestures to the off-white loveseat across from her.

He sidles over and sets his blue cocktail on the glass coffee table as he eases down on the edge of the couch. Whatever the Siren mixed for him back at the bar is starting to fade, unmasking the dull aches and making him very aware of the bruises under the bodysuit.

The Siren's gaze bores into him as he rests his hands on his knees. She reminds him of Gem, always knowing what's going on, always knowing what the next step is. He won't be surprised if she can read his mind, too.

The beat the MP3s are mixing pulses around the room, vibrating the walls and the air even though he can't hear it, and he finds his heartbeats matching the rhythm. He watches the blue liquid in the cocktail glass ripple as he waits for Crystal to say something; she remains silent so he takes the initiative.

"So why Zuse's cane?"

Her lips curve into a calculating smile. "You're not the only one he pissed off. Just because he's still one of the most powerful programs on the Grid doesn't mean he shouldn't pay for what he did. Taking his cane is one way to start."

Sam quirks an eyebrow at this, then glances at Tron. The security program returns it over his shoulder, mouth a thin line, and then continues to watch the club scene; Sam can't tell what Tron thinks of the request, and then wonders why _he _cares.

"Got anything else on mind?" Sam asks.

"You can try bringing me his Light Disc," Crystal says as her smile turns to all teeth. "Or you can undo the last thousand cycles, or bring back Gem. I always told her not to get involved in Zuse's activities, especially when he started getting too friendly with Clu's crowd."

Her eyes slide to her right and Sam follows her line of sight to Tron.

"Zuse might not be so friendly this time," Crystal says as she rises to her feet. "He also moved his business elsewhere. I can give you the sector. Bring me his cane and his pride, and you'll have your light runner."

She then nods to the gash on his arm. "You should do something about that. The programs you fought won't be the only ones looking for you."

"The ones we fought," Tron suddenly says, "were called Octane and Sigma."

"Octane, huh?" Crystal considers this, then says, "I'll ask around. Now if you'll excuse me, I have business to attend to."

At the door Crystal adds, "If you need anything you know where to find me."

After she leaves Sam starts inspecting his upper arm. A scab is starting to form over the injury, which is actually shallower than it looks and feels, but it's still too visible and he doubts there's anything in TRON City for him to take care of it with. He runs a finger over the ragged edge of the bodysuit and watches the bodysuit mend itself, solving _that _problem. Maybe he's supposed to mend the gash using his disk, and what does his DNA look like here anyway?

"You should stay here," Tron suddenly says, while he's trying to rub the drying blood off. "I can go find Zuse and fulfill our end of the bargain."

Sam scowls at the program, gets a sudden flashback of Alan playing the surrogate father. He rises to his feet and faces Tron with squared shoulders. "I'm not hiding."

"By now every program in the Grid knows you're here. We can't risk another confrontation; the goal is to get you to the Outlands, not to a potentially dangerous sector in the city."

"You gotta be kidding me." He throws his arms up in the air and then strides over to Tron, points at him and says, "Just because you're a security program doesn't mean you get to keep me out of the equation."

"I'm not."

"Yeah, you are. I have to be there every step of the way; this is my responsibility, my fight."

"I have to protect you-"

"I know _that_." Sam clenches his hands, considers the repercussions of punching the program in the face. "You fight for the Users and everything and that's great, I appreciate it, but you're overdoing it. It's not like I'm going to do something stupid like announce to the entire Grid that my name's Sam Flynn. "

Tron's eyes flick his wounded arm and then back to his face. He doesn't say anything but his opinion on the matter is clear and that has Sam's hackles rising again.

Apparently they're now having a staring contest, standing toe to toe and neither willing to give an inch. It's a little harder for Sam since he has to tilt his head up at the program - since when did Tron grow several inches? He distinctly remembers Rinzler being short, and freaking fast - and then it gets even harder when he sees the little cracks in Tron's stern, no-nonsense expression.

_"Tron fought for me. I never saw him again."_

Sam takes an involuntary step back, stunned. Is Tron trying to make amends for his failure to stop Clu that night over twenty years ago? Is this an attempt to make up for what he did as Rinzler?

"It's not your fault," Sam says, watching Tron flinch and drop his gaze. "You know that, right?"

Now Tron is refusing to look at him. Sam sighs. "Fine. We're wasting time; I'll just find a cloak or something to disguise myself. How's that?"

Tron nods at the decision. "Wait here."

While the program leaves the room to ask Crystal for one Sam turns to the transparent barrier, watching the MP3s work the crowd. There are more programs now, occupying couches, barstools, and the dance floor in front of the DJs. Programs of every circuitry color are here - white, blue, green, yellow, and he even catches a glimpse of red-orange.

He recalls what that search program said about this club and wonders what Crystal had to do to establish a neutral zone, wonders about the circumstances that led to one being made in the first place. A neutral sector, programs so fearful of what Tron used to be that they'll hunt him down to kill him, the attempt on Sam's life… what happened here?

He leans against the wall, mind awhirl. TRON City needs a User. The city needs _him_. Can he do it? Can he repair Clu's damage and the months of neglect, restore his father's beloved Grid? Where does he even begin? And what about Quorra and ENCOM? He can't get sucked into this at the expense of his real life.

"Sam."

He turns around to see Tron at the door, a cloak in hand. The program still looks unhappy about his decision but says nothing as Sam takes the cloak and pulls it on. Its edges light up white as he follows Tron out of the club.

* * *

><p><strong>Author's Endnote: <strong>So, um, FYI - _We Are Pilots_ follows the one-shots _whoami_ and _Chicken Soup for a Friend's Soul_, which you can find on my profile page. In case you were wondering if you missed something.


	4. 4

**We Are Pilots**

**4**

Breathing heavily, Sam slowly locks his Light Disc onto his back as he surveys the street. He kicks at the bits of broken code on the ground and turns around to see Tron staring down at the glass-like fragments, disks blazing in his hands. Sam doesn't like the distressed look on the program's face; it doesn't belong there.

"What? What's wrong?" he asks.

Tron shakes his head and combines the two halves of his Light Disc. He then picks up and throws Sam's discarded cloak back to him. "It's nothing. Let's go."

Sam sighs as he pulls the hood over his head and runs after Tron, who's intent on walking as fast as a lightcycle runs. Too bad they can't actually ride lightcycles to the sector Zuse is hiding in - as they entered this particularly shady area of TRON City they saw two programs get derezzed for trying to get back their lightcycles. This sector is also supposedly one of the largest and that's not even the best part. Most of the programs here are green, yellow, and red-orange and they seem to enjoy targeting blue and white-lit programs. The fight Sam and Tron just walked away from was their fifth since entering the sector.

A trio of yellow programs standing by a building entrance across the street are the only programs out and about on this block. They're staring, looking a little too interested in Tron's Light Disc. Then one of them turns his head to Sam and curls his lip in a snarl.

"Friendly bunch," Sam says. "Shouldn't you put that away? It's drawing a lot of attention."

"No. We might not be so lucky the next time we're ambushed."

"Just don't like advertising ourselves here."

"Then walk faster," Tron says in a clipped tone and Sam stares at him, taken back. "Unless..."

Tron suddenly grabs Sam by the upper arm and drags him into the alleyway between two skyscrapers. Sam stumbles over his feet as he tries to figure out what the hell the program is doing. Tron keeps pulling him deeper into the alley until the only sources of light are their circuitry. At that point Tron lets him go and Sam quickly steps back from him, trying to rub the impression of the program's strong grip off of his arm.

"Was that really necessary?" he demands.

"No," Tron deadpans. "How well do you know the Grid?"

"What?"

"You're a User. You can create as well as destroy and...and repurpose. Can you make a shortcut to Zuse's sector? Preferably one large enough to fit two lightcycles?"

Sam stares at him, wondering if Tron has any idea what he's actually asking. Making the shortcut isn't hard - whenever he was at the old office going through Flynn's files he also took the time to study the yellowed map of the Grid, plus they know exactly where they're going so writing a shortcut will be easy - but what it means for him, for what Sam will be here if he does this, is more than a little scary. Until a few hours ago he didn't think the Grid would come back into his life; now, standing in the midst of a slowly collapsing city next to the program that was once its champion, Sam realizes that this place will never become a ghost of his past like he thought it would.

"Yeah," Sam hears himself say, his voice coming in from a distance. He kneels down, pressing a hand on the cold surface, and watches it light up with code. "I can write a shortcut."

The system is more complex than Flynn's notes make it out to be; Sam carefully picks through the code, marveling at the complexity of just this city block. He can't even begin to imagine what the Grid looks like under the hood and wonders how his father did it.

_He made the Grid. He was here for decades,_ a voice whispers in the back of his head. _Of course he knew the ins and outs of this place._

"What's the sector again?" Sam asks. Tron tells him and he includes it into the new lines of code. Next to him a thin line of light starts drawing on the ground, creating a perfect circle. Sam watches it form a manhole as he finishes inputting the new code and lifts his hand. He then sits back on his heels, suddenly tired. "Wow."

Tron crouches down on the other side of the manhole cover and lifts it. Translucent rungs guide the way down into a dimly lit tunnel that's reminiscent of the underpasses in downtown L.A.

"This will work," Tron says, looking up at him. He's actually smiling, although Sam doesn't know what there is to be happy about.

The smile and the glow from their circuitry and the tunnel down below create a strangely eerie and entrancing image. Sam suddenly feels uncomfortable, like his bodysuit shrunk two sizes. He rubs his arm again as he stands up, tosses the cloak aside, and clears his throat.

"So who's first?"

* * *

><p>The shortcut stops just short of the sector. A sheer wall rises up before them and Sam hits the brakes, skids to a stop in front of the transparent rungs leading to the manhole cover overhead.<p>

By some stroke of luck the manhole they pull themselves out of is also hidden away in an alley. While Tron pushes the cover over the entrance, sealing the shortcut Sam looks up; the buildings' circuits start several feet above his head and light up the darkness like Christmas lights. Both ends of the alley also give off an intense glow and Sam wonders exactly what kind of sector Zuse hid himself in.

Unlike the sector they just escaped this one is teeming with programs. The sight of yellow-lit tanks on the street unnerves Sam as they weave through the crowded sidewalk. The dominant circuitry colors here seem to be blue, yellow, and white, making it incredibly easy for Sam and Tron to blend in.

"Did she say exactly _where _to find Zuse?" Sam asks as they cross the street.

"No." Tron stands at the corner of the intersection, watching the flow of programs.

"Well that's helpful," Sam says. "It's not like someone's going to walk up to us and guess that we're looking for someone."

Tron just turns his head in the opposite direction, watching a tank roll away. He then looks at Sam and says, "We'll just have to find him ourselves."

"We're talking about a program who knows how to reinvent himself," Sam says as he picks a direction and starts walking down the street. "If he can convince anyone who's looking for him that he's just his secretary Castor-"

"Most programs who were granted an audience with Zuse didn't live long," Tron says, bitterness tingeing his voice. "Clu made sure of it."

Sam remembers the programs Zuse was talking to before Gem interrupted, recalls them saying he could foment a revolution against Clu. A program with that much power, influence, and know-how can easily repurpose himself for the post-Clu Grid, and disappear.

"She seriously wants his cane?" he mutters as he skirts around a couple. She could've driven a harder bargain so he guesses that they're lucky but seriously, the light-cane? "What if we can't find Zuse?" He raises his voice as they walk by what looks like a high end club, dodges the long line of glitzy programs waiting to get in. "There has to be another way to get a light runner."

"Light runner, huh?" a voice pipes up at his left elbow. "Rare request, that. I know someone who might just be able to find you one."

Sam whirls around, hand reaching behind his back for his Light Disc. Tron is at his side instantly, staring down at a short yellow-lit program.

"Explain yourself," Tron says.

"You're a defensive bunch," the program says. "I just overheard you talking about needing a light runner and decided to offer some help."

"You know someone who can get us one?" Sam asks. He feels Tron's warning glare on him but ignores it; if someone's offering another way to reach the Outlands he's taking it.

"Yes. There's a skyscraper two blocks that way with levitating steps leading up to the entrance. Ask for Pollux. You won't be the only programs looking for information. If you're lucky he'll grant you an audience. Just hope you have something he wants in exchange; information-" She leans in as if to whisper a secret and Tron shifts ever so slightly, ready to position himself between her and Sam. "Hey, easy, I'm not going to derezz him. I said I wanted to help. Now listen - Pollux has connections. He has ways of getting what you need. You want to know what happened to another program he can find out. You need a light runner, he can probably find one. Need security programs to secure your sector, he'll find a few."

Sam crosses his arms over his chest as he considers the program's words. He has a very good idea who this "Pollux" really is, meaning that holding up their end of the bargain has become a lot easier. He just can't decide if he should bother stealing the cane when he can make some kind of deal on the fly to get that light runner. Time is still an important factor; with Quorra on the other side he knows it'll remain open until he gets back, but the longer he stays here the riskier everything gets.

"We should check it out," he says. "Faster we get a light runner, the better."

Tron gives him a disapproving look but says nothing.

"Well," the program says. "I hope you find what you need."

She turns smartly on the balls of her feet and start walking away. Sam takes a step after her, calls out, "Hey, wait. Who are you? And why us?"

She looks over her shoulder at him and smiles impishly. The pupils of her eyes flicker yellow while she says, "I'm Enyo. Yellow circuitry means I'm a search program so I guess that's what I am. And like I said, I overheard you. Good luck!"

She walks away at a rapid pace and in seconds Sam loses her to the crowd. He frowns, confused at the unexpected turn of events, and then stumbles to the side when Tron pushes him in the direction of the skyscraper she told them about.

"I swear, it's like deja vu," he tells Tron, pitching his voice low so as to not pick up more attention. "I go looking for something and someone shows up out of nowhere to tell me how to get it. Now all we need is for 'Pollux' to backstab us and take us back to square one."

The building Enyo specified has to be the tallest on the Grid, not counting the one housing the former End of Line Club; Sam can't see the roof thanks to the thick clouds. There's a short line of assorted programs standing near a familiar set of levitating steps leading up to sliding glass doors. Red-lit programs guard the entrance; Tron stiffens next to him and mutters, "Sentries."

"Oh come on. I thought they all derezzed or something."

"Most of them did during the Reintegration," Tron says, voice hitching over the last word. "The ones that are left are being used as security by those who can afford the risk, but only a User or a very specific program can reprogram them again."

"So, what? They still hate us then?" Sam looks over his shoulder at the Sentry units as they call up the program standing at the head of the line. "We're walking into a building filled with programs that want to kill me? Sounds like fun."

"Right now we don't have a choice," Tron says as they join the line. "But be prepared for anything."

Sam watches the summoned program walk into the building, wonders if she knows what she's getting herself into. "Don't worry. Already learned my lesson. When they say they play all the angles they really mean it."

The line moves at an agonizing pace. More programs line up behind them, waiting their turn for a chance at an audience with Pollux. Sam starts rocking back and forth on the balls and heels of his feet, keeping count of how many programs are allowed in, how many are thrown out, and what types Pollux seems to prefer. Next to him Tron stands tall and silent, watching the crowd, the Sentries, the programs, the street, anything and everything on this street in the brightly lit sector.

They're much closer to the front of the line - but still have a ways to go - when Tron suddenly takes a sliding half-step towards him, invading his space. Sam leans back, startled, and holds himself still as the program says in a low voice, "Maybe he knows what happened to Yori."

Yori. The name strikes a very distant chord; as it shakes off the collected dust Sam echoes the name and gives him a questioning look.

"Did Flynn ever tell you? She helped us steal the Solar Sailer she had just built so that we could find the MCP's core and destroy it."

Sam must have a very strange look on his face because Tron smiles again, says, "I know he told you stories about us. He used to tell me how badly you wanted to meet me. I think he called it 'having a bad case of hero worship'."

Sam laughs at that, embarrassed as he is. He remembers, all right; he still has the little action figure, buried under by other childhood memories in a shoebox under his bed. He had gone through the contents for the first time since he was twelve not long after he took back ENCOM and started moving out of the shipping container by the river to a respectable loft. He found the dusty little Tron figure and pressed the button, wondering if it'll light up. His father's stories of the Grid started resurfacing in his head as he watched the toy glow steadily for a few seconds and then flicker erratically. When it refused to turn back on he tossed it back in the box and sealed it shut.

"Yeah, I remember all right." He shakes his head at the memories and rubs the back of his neck. Those were the good years, and he had so few of them. The fond nostalgia suddenly drains from him, leaving him feeling more tired than before. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath as he sways back and forth on his feet, and decides to get back on topic. "So, uh, so what happened to Yori?"

When Tron takes too long to answer Sam flicks his eyes up; the program keeps hesitating, mouth opening and closing like he's not sure what to say. His body language is stiff and slightly hunched over, a posture that echoes of Rinzler.

"I haven't heard from her since Clu...since I became Rinzler," Tron says slowly. "And I haven't had the opportunity to ask."

More like most of the programs here are hell-bent on killing him before he can get a single word in. And maybe there's a part of Tron that's afraid to ask anyway, and not just because Yori might not exist anymore. He saw the way Crystal treated Tron, the sympathy in her eyes as she gave him his cocktail, the way she turned to Sam instead of him for answers, letting him decide if and when he wants to say anything. Sam's starting to suspect that the program may be more damaged than he already appears to be, and he doesn't show much at all. This is the most he's said about anything besides getting Sam to the Outlands, and Sam figures he should say_ something _about that.

Sam places his hand on Tron's shoulder and squeezes once. The program looks up at him, surprised.

"Hey, chin up. You'll find her. Things'll get better, I promise."

Tron looks apprehensive and Sam wonders if he said the wrong thing. He doesn't get a chance to figure it out; the program in front of them gets called up by the Sentries and in ten seconds is thrown down the steps. The blue program crashes to the ground and curses loudly while a Sentry loudly says, "Next."

Tron hangs back as they go up the steps. Sam is immediately confronted by the other Sentry, who says, "State your business with Pollux."

He can easily say he wants to make a deal for a light runner, since it's apparently a very unusual request, but he needs something _solid_, something that'll pique Pollux's interest and guarantee a meeting.

"I'm looking for two friends of mine," he says carefully, watching the two programs and the humming staffs in their hands. "Their names are Castor and Gem; I last saw them at the End of Line Club many cycles ago."

The nearer Sentry frowns and looks at the other.

"Castor and Gem," the first Sentry says, pressing a hand to the side of his helmet. "Yes, sir. Right away." He looks straight at Sam and points at the entrance. "Proceed through those doors and take the elevator to the fifty-second floor."

They start herding him and Tron towards the sliding doors, the staffs coming dangerously close to hitting them; Tron starts shifting stances and Sam grabs his wrist to stop him from pulling out his Light Discs and jeopardizing their chances. He holds up his free hand to the Sentries in a placating manner, saying, "Okay, we're going, we're going."

The doors slide open behind them; as soon as their feet hit the floor inside the building the Sentries do an about-face and march back to the line to interrogate the next program.

Sam lets out a breath with a _whoosh _and looks over his shoulder at the security programs. "Man, talk about being pushy. What's the rush?"

He turns back around and takes in the lobby. It's enormous and starkly empty; the alternating wall panels glow soft white, illuminating the way to the only thing on the ground floor – the elevator shaft at the very back.

"He knows how to get back on his feet," Sam mutters, looking around the massive space as they walk to the elevator. The place didn't look _that_big on the outside.

"The last time I saw him he was operating out of an abandoned building in a deserted sector," Tron says. "He may have enemies but he's a master reinventor and they don't know the truth, therefore they can't touch him."

"But I can," Sam says as the elevator door slides open and they step inside. "Just watch."

* * *

><p>"Well, well, well," Zuse says as he leans back in his chair and props his feet up on the opaque desk, cane resting across his lap. "We meet again, son of Flynn."<p>

Sam looks around as the last security program leaves; across the room from Zuse's desk is an open bar and the wall on Sam's right is made entirely of glass, giving him a panoramic view of TRON City. Half the skyscrapers making up the skyline are silhouettes. From here he can see the portal winking in the horizon like a too-bright star.

"So," Zuse says, and Sam turns around, "I've been hearing some very interesting rumors around these parts. More than the usual oddities, if I may add."

The program slowly rises from his chair and limps past Tron to the open bar. Sam stares at the deep crack running up his leg, wondering where it came from. Zuse hooks his cane on the counter edge and starts setting carafes and bottles on the countertop. He fixes himself a neon pink cocktail and drops in a delicate glass umbrella, then leans on the counter and looks first at Tron and then at Sam.

"Bit...awkward, don't you think?" Zuse asks, gesturing at the yawning space between the three with his free hand.

"Considering what happened the last time we met, yeah," Sam says.

"Oh come now. That was all in the past. We're not here to chat about that." Zuse sips his cocktail and then his eyes flick between them again. The uneasy smile on his face freezes. "...are we?"

"You know why we're here," Tron says.

"Not feeling very chatty, then. Fine. Light runners are hard to come by. All off-Grid vehicles are. It'll be pricy, I can guarantee that."

"Yeah?" Sam asks. "How pricy?"

Zuse tips his cocktail glass towards him. "Your disk, for example."

Tron shifts towards Sam. "What do you want with his disk?"

"Defensive, are we? I don't think Sam Flynn here doesn't need much protecting so relax." Zuse gives Tron a cheeky smile and then focuses on Sam. "Getting one's hands on a User's disk is, as you can imagine, almost impossible. Well, except for that one time but we're not here to discuss that."

He plucks the umbrella out of the glass and drains the cocktail. "Information is a valuable commodity nowadays. I can only imagine what's stored in your disk. A first-hand account of the Reintegration, maybe, or maybe a detailed map of the Grid's infrastructure. Flynn wasn't called the Creator just because he's a User."

"You think I'm going to hand over my disk for a light runner?" Sam asks incredulously.

"No, but I'm sure you want something more..._substantial _than a light runner."

Like what Sam came here for. He's not giving Zuse that kind of leverage, but he's not leaving this sector without a light runner or the cane. He walks up to the counter and leans on it, stares straight at Zuse, and says, "Or you can give us a light runner and neither of us will say anything about your double-dealing."

The expression on Zuse's face flips to a storm. "You wouldn't."

"Do I look like someone who makes the same mistake twice? I'm not telling you anything. Give us a light runner, or I bring this building down on your head."

He slides the palm of his hand over the countertop and the surface lights up with code. Tinkering with it is a little easier the second time and in no time a segment of the counter starts flickering before derezzing completely, shattering and spreading all over the floor. Zuse snatches the empty cocktail glass and laughs nervously as he sets it on a solid surface. "Fine. I get you a light runner and you keep your mouth shut. Both of you."

"Of course," Sam says as he pushes himself off the counter and steps back. "It's all in the past."

Zuse grabs his cane and gives Tron a wide berth as he limps to the door. "Just give me a few seconds; I'm sure there's a light runner lying around…somewhere."

The door shuts behind the program. Sam sits down on the edge of the nearest couch while Tron goes to the glass wall and stares out at the cityscape. He leans forward, kneading his temples, wonders just how long it's going to take to even reach the Outlands. Thank god Quorra is on the other side, making sure the portal stays open; this is taking much longer than he expected, even allowing for the time difference between the real world and the Grid.

"I doubt he's looking for a light runner," Tron says.

Sam shrugs. "Let's see what happens."

He tilts his head and watches Tron, wonders what's going through the program's mind. He then looks at the bright lights of the buildings around this block and in the distant sectors. It's a beautiful sight but he knows it must've looked incredible long ago.

"Enjoying the view?" he asks.

From this angle he can see Tron's reflection, including the nostalgic smile as he says, "It's not like what it used to be but it is beautiful."

Sam thinks about his first minutes on the Grid and the ride in the Recognizer above the city towards the arena. The sight was awe-striking and still remains one of his better memories. But Sam knows what Tron's really talking about. "I wish I was there to see that."

He doesn't mean to let his wistful seven-year-old self slip in, but Tron picks up on it, says, "He always wanted to bring you here. Despite everything that was happening he still believed that-"

Something clicks and hisses loudly. Sam lifts his head and then jumps to his feet, reaching behind him for his Light Disc as the panels on the walls of the room shift and retract, revealing six Black Guards.

"Oh you gotta be kidding me," he says as the helmet and visor form over his head.

He has maybe two seconds to think that maybe threatening Zuse the way he did wasn't the best idea before a Black Guard tries to hit him with a staff; he knocks it away with his disk before one of Tron's shoots by and through the security program.

Sam jumps back to avoid a beam katana and tumbles onto the couch behind him. He scrambles back and then off the couch as the Black Guard leaps forward with the beam katana held high. Sam flings his disk and derezzes the program in mid-air, catches the disk on its return, and spins around to block another Black Guard's staff. He doesn't see the one coming at him from the side until it's too late; the blow throws him off his feet and into Tron, sending them both crashing into the floor in the middle of the room.

"Are you all right?" Tron asks as Sam pushes himself back onto his feet.

"Yeah." He sees the door behind the advancing Black Guard. "You think you can distract these guys while I get Zuse's cane?"

Tron nods, flings his Light Discs at two flanking Guards, and throws himself at the nearest one; he wrestles a beam katana from it and then stabs it through the chest. Sam leaps over the bits of code, slams his disk into a Guard, and hurtles himself out the door.

The hallway is teeming with more Black Guards along with several unfamiliar blue and green-lit programs. Sam assesses the situation, looks at his Light Disc, then makes a hard left and sprints for the elevator. At the whine of a Light Disc he drops and rolls on his shoulders, avoiding the blue blur as it boomerangs back to its owner. He slams his hand on the side of the elevator shaft and the surface lights up with code. He traces its last stop and then inputs a command line that brings it down to his floor.

Another disk streaks his way; he hits it back and it slices off its owner's arm. Sam drops to the ground as more security programs start flinging their disks at him and throws his at the nearest program.

"Come on, come on," he mutters when a quick check tells him the elevator hasn't arrived yet.

Then the elevator stops at his floor and the door slides open. He throws himself inside and slams his hand against the wall to close the door. As it slides shut a program throws a beam katana; it slips in and impales itself next to Sam's head. He stares at it and then grabs its handle and pulls it out.

The floor Zuse presumably went to is even higher; Sam pushes the button on the control panel and hooks the baton onto the outside of his left thigh while the visor retracts from his helmet. He hefts his Light Disc as he watches the display flit through the numbers, his shallow breaths echoing around the enclosed space as he starts feeling the burn of exertion.

"Just keeps getting better and better," he says as the elevator slows and comes to a stop. "Here we go."

The elevator door opens to three green programs and one blue program. They're all armed.

"Well that's just great," Sam sighs as the visor slides into place.

"We have orders to derezz you if you don't turn back," one of the programs says.

"I don't think so," Sam says and flings his Light Disc.

They all evade it but don't expect the beam katana. One of the green programs screams as Sam stabs him in the side with it. He thrusts forward through the cascade of scalding code bits but the intended target blocks him; Sam staggers to the side and barely evades the Light Disc aiming for his neck.

Snatching his disk out of the air he spins around and blocks another program's staff; the program pushes down and Sam grits his teeth as his arms start trembling and burning from the increasing force. Just as his arms give way he twists to the side and the program stumbles forward, exposing himself; Sam stabs him with the beam katana and then blocks the last green program's disk with his. He sees the blue program coming at him from the side out of the corner of his eye and swings the beam katana back to block the incoming blow.

"You won't get what you came for," the blue program says. "Give it up."

"Easier said than done," Sam says and kicks at the side of the green program's knee.

As he stumbles into the wall Sam turns and derezzes the blue program, then whirls around and brings the edge of his disk down on the base of the green program's neck. Broken code litters the floor as he tucks away the beam katana and walks down the hall to the single door. He shoves it open and then freezes as Zuse's Light Disc hums against his Adam's apple.

"Your disk," Zuse says pleasantly.

Sam holds it out and Zuse slides his cane through it, lifting it out of his grasp.

"You should've seen this city twenty-six cycles ago," the program says as he slides around Sam, keeping his disk at the base of his neck. "Chaos. Utter chaos. Programs derezzing each other on the streets, whole sectors shutting down as the system Clu built collapsed. 'He abandoned us', they said. 'First the Users, now Clu. They've abandoned us.'"

He nudges Sam towards the center of the enormous and mostly empty room; the only things occupying it are a large desk, a chair, a glass carafe of blue energy, and a case on the wall behind the desk that appears to hold several clearly marked batons.

"Now there are several systems fumbling and bumbling along, trying to restore TRON City to its former glory." Zuse points at the glass wall on Sam's right side with the tip of his cane. "Does that look like 'former glory' to you?"

Sam has eyes only for his disk. "What, you think mine works like a master key or something? Like Dad's? You think it'll give you control of the Grid? I don't think that's how it works."

"And that won't matter because _nobody needs to know that_," Zuse says with a toothy grin. "Simple, isn't it?"

He considers it for a moment. "So that's the angle you're going to play?"

"Welcome to the post-Clu Grid, Sam Flynn." Zuse presses his disk in and Sam flinches, trying to avoid its burning edge. "I prefer keeping my hands clean of the uglier side of business, but-"

The hesitation in the program's eyes tell him enough and Sam throws himself back, startling Zuse into dropping the end of his cane. His Light Disc slides off and onto the floor a little ways from them both. Sam glances at Zuse, then at his disk, and sprints towards it. He ducks a bolt of energy from Zuse's cane and dives for the disk, grabs it and slides into the glass wall. The Light Disc lights up in his hand, burning bright white as he gets back on his feet and pulls out the beam katana.

Zuse looks only vaguely disappointed. "I suppose we'll have to do it the hard way. Shall we?"

He makes a flourishing bow at Sam and starts walking backwards toward the door. Panels all along the walls start sliding, revealing more security programs.

"Seriously?" Sam asks.

He has maybe seconds before the programs attack. Sam glances at the case behind the desk, at Zuse's cane, at the security programs, and the glass wall behind him. He then flings his disk at the nearest Sentry and runs at Zuse, knocks the program's disk out of the way, and wrests the cane out of the program's hand. Zuse shouts something incoherent as Sam grabs his returning Light Disc and locks it in behind his back. He jumps and slides over the desk, knocking the carafe to the floor, and rams his elbow into the case, breaking it open. He fumbles for a baton, sees red out of the corner of his eye, and ducks a Light Disc. Glass shards rain on him as he grabs one and runs straight for the glass wall.

"You can't be serious-" Zuse shouts but the shattering glass around him drowns out the rest of his words.

Wind whips around him as Sam tries to reposition himself without losing either the baton or Zuse's cane. He drops the beam katana and pulls the baton apart; a light jet forms underneath him and he nearly slams his face on it as the jet abruptly stops his momentum. His helmet and visor assemble as Sam tucks the cane under his arm and looks over his shoulder at a stupefied Zuse, ends up swerving out of the way of a far-reaching and very ambitious Light Disc.

He tips the light jet down and starts circling the building, looking for Tron. He finds the floor and the room easily; the glass wall has been all blown out, giving him a view of the security program derezzing two Guards at once while ducking a green-lit program. Sam finds the triggers of the light jet's automatic guns and fires on the programs trying to circle around and attack Tron from behind.

Tron whirls around while the other programs quickly back off. Sam brings the light jet right next to the building and gestures for him to get on. Tron looks over his shoulder, slams a disk into the Guard trying to get him from his blind spot, combines and puts the Light Disc behind his back, and sprints for the jet. Sam flings his out to derezz another Black Guard as Tron leaps off the edge and soars over the massive drop onto the jet behind him. The light jet tips backward from the weight and Sam almost loses the cane. As he grabs it and tries to steer the light jet away from the building Tron catches his Light Disc and locks it on his back.

"Thanks-shit!" Sam tilts the light jet to avoid a red-orange disk. Tron wraps an arm around Sam's waist as he takes the light jet around to face the assailant; a second later a blue Light Disc flies by Sam's head to derezz the program.

"Yeah, we're getting out of here," Sam says as Tron catches the returning disk.

The light jet tilts back around and suddenly jolts; too late Sam sees a fiery Light Disc slice through one of the engines on the wing. The light jet rapidly loses altitude as the engine shatters and broken code falls on the street below.

"Hold on!" he shouts and angles for the nearest flat surface.

When it comes down to it Sam doesn't remember much of the crash. There's no hope for a smooth landing considering that the light jet rapidly derezzes as they near the rooftop; at the last second Tron pulls him off the jet and he hits the roof hard while the jet explodes into a million pieces of code.

The first thing Sam's aware of when he comes to is how much his body hurts_ everywhere_. Every joint aches and throbs, he can feel the bruises under the bodysuit, and he concludes that every bone in his body is broken even though he can slide his hand over the cold surface. He stares up at the lights of the taller buildings reflecting off the clouds and then tilts his head to the right; there's a massive pile of broken code, the remains of the light jet. He looks to his left and flicks his eyes up at Tron, who's sitting cross-legged next to him and studying Zuse's cane intently.

"Oh good," Sam says, groaning as he slides his hands behind him and slowly sits up. "We're alive."

"We should leave," Tron says and jumps to his feet like he wasn't just in a light jet crash. "This sector isn't safe."

He nods to the building they escaped from; Sam slides himself over to the ledge and peers down at the Sentries spreading out from the skyscraper and searching the streets.

"Yeah. Let's get out of here. How long was I out?"

"Not too long." Tron leans down and hauls him up by the upper arm onto his feet. "Let's go."

As Sam creates another shortcut between sectors in another alleyway while Tron keeps watch he says, "I've done a triple-axle off a skyscraper but I am _never_ doing _that_ again."


	5. 5

**We Are Pilots**

**5**

Somewhere between the lightcycle ride under TRON City and standing at the entrance to Crystal's club exhaustion hits Sam like it was on a time delay. The ground rocks violently under his feet and he stumbles into the side of the building; he leans against it and rubs his face while Tron approaches.

"What is it?"

Sam sighs and slides his hand off his face. He tilts his head towards the program and gestured emptily, waving it away. "Just tired. Had a long day. First ENCOM, then coming here, then that crazy shit we just did..." He lets his hand drop. "After this is over I'm going to bed and sleeping for a month."

Tron just gives him a bemused look and waits for him to push off the wall and start walking. Sam's pretty sure though that the program smiles as he turns away.

The air in the club pulsates with the MP3s' heavy beat. Sam feels like he's going deaf and his lungs are about to pop at any second. He looks for the MP3s and spots them at the loft over the dance floor, nodding their helmeted heads in time with the music. Almost as soon as his eyes fall on them they look up; one of them gives him a wave while the other MP3 takes his hands off the equipment to make a more lewd gesture.

Sam raises an eyebrow. "What?"

Tron just pushes him through the crowd towards the bar, where Crystal is busy talking with three other programs. As Sam slides onto a barstool and buries his face in the crook of his elbow the Siren excuses herself and moves over to them. Before she can say anything Tron sets Zuse's cane on the counter.

At the slow, knowing smile on her face Sam says, "Tell me you can get us a light runner or I swear…"

She slides her hand along the cane's length. "You fulfilled your half of the bargain. Give me a little time to fulfill my half." She leans on the counter and looks down at Sam. Her face is starting to blur around the edges. "You look tired. Why don't you go to the room in the back and rest? No one's going to hurt you while you're here." Her pupils flicker white. "I'll make sure of it."

The offer is just too good to pass up. The need to sleep is becoming relentless, dragging his limbs down while numbing his senses to the point that he has to really concentrate on what he's doing getting off the stool is a difficult enough task, never mind following Crystal to the room in the back. He manages to bump into Tron, unfamiliar programs, and the wall; after that Tron places his hand at Sam's elbow and guides him after the Siren.

The large low bed in the corner is the most welcoming thing Sam has never seen and he makes a beeline for it immediately.

"Oh man," he says as he first sits down and then lies back. He stares up at the stark white ceiling while a rhythmic beat bounces off the transparent barrier between the room and the club. He then covers his eyes with his forearm and takes a deep, deep breath.

"How long?" he hears Tron ask.

"Not forever I hope," Crystal replies. "Now rest. It'll do you some good for once if you'd stop trying to redeem yourself."

After he hears the door close Sam asks, "What is she talking about?"

As usual Tron doesn't answer. Sam cracks an eye open and tilts his head; the program is staring out at the club scene, mouth a grim line. He almost looks like Alan back when Sam was an angry, rebellious teenager.

"Seriously. You can't keep this act up forever you know."

Tron looks at him. "You should rest. The Outlands is not easy to cross."

"What about you?"

The program shrugs and looks away. "I'll manage."

Apparently he won't be talked into sitting down and stop acting like a security program for once. Sam rolls his eyes and then shuts them, sighs while listening to the MP3's latest track and Tron's footsteps as he paces around the room.

_Sam has no idea why he's a spy working undercover at a campus bookstore that looks suspiciously like the one at CalTech. It can't even be called a "campus bookstore" since this looks like a street in a city that's definitely not L.A. It might be France, possibly Paris._

_And there's no way he can explain why Quorra walks into the bookstore dressed up as a clown. And since when did the bookstore suddenly become a cafe that sells pizza?_

_Who Sam ends up talking to is Gem, who's lounging about at a small wrought iron table in front of the cafe, wearing a fashionable trench coat and staring across the street at the roundabout._

_"Did you get it?" she asks as soon as he walks up to her._

_He doesn't know what he says in reply but she smiles and says, "Good. I'll see you back at the hotel in two hours."_

_"What hotel?"_

_Instead of answering Gem stands up and walks away to join Crystal, who's leaning against a scooter parked by a meter. He raises an eyebrow as she climbs on behind the other Siren and wraps her arms around Crystal's waist._

_Someone is standing on the sidewalk on the other side of the street, staring at Sam. The Sirens ride out of his line of sight but the scooter's loud rumbling persists while Sam narrows his eyes, trying to sharpen the blurry figure._

_The scooter's engine keeps growling in his ear while he climbs over the wrought iron fence that wasn't there before and tries to cross the street to figure out the person's identity. Except he can't cross the street for some reason and is stuck on the sidewalk on this side of the asphalt._

_The rumbling keeps getting louder and louder. Sam frowns and looks up and down the street but there are no vehicles in sight. It doesn't even really sound like an engine; in fact it sounds like a very loud electronic purr, A_nd Sam blinks at the ceiling. It's not the ceiling of his bedroom back at the apartment and the muffled music isn't the kind his sometimes obnoxious neighbors blast at night.

In a second the rest of his brain catches up with his sudden wakefulness and Sam becomes aware of several things. One, in the time between falling asleep and waking up he somehow moved himself up on the bed. Two, there is something heavy and warm wrapped around him on his left side. Three, that something is rumbling-_purring_, like a really loud cat.

Like Rinzler.

_Oh shit-_

He stops himself from shoving Rinzler away and scrambling off the bed. The smart idea isn't to provoke the program especially since Sam isn't in the mood for another fight. Instead he holds himself still and slowly turns his head to his left...and has no idea what to think about the security program curled up next to him, arm and leg wrapped around him like a possessive octopus. His circuits are dark except for the four blue blinking squares on his chest, like a computer on standby.

The weirdest thing, Sam ends up thinking as he stares at the strange and peaceful look on Tron's face, is the purring. Tron is_ purring _like Rinzler, and he finds that a little freakier than the fact that he's lying in a bed with a program who's taking fighting for the Users a little too far. And yet Sam can't bring himself to slide out and put a little distance between them. In a way the rumbling warm presence next to him tell him that there's someone here he can trust, someone who he knows will protect him until the very end.

Maybe that's the freakiest thing and Sam has no idea what to do about it.

While his thoughts fragment as he drifts off he decides that the purring is actually kind of nice.

When he wakes up again it's to the same ceiling, a mellower beat on the other side of the barrier, the same rumbling and weight wrapped around him, and the feeling that there's someone else in the room. Sam slowly pushes himself up, careful not to disturb Tron. He might as well shove the program aside since it's obvious how completely out of it he is. His arm curves around Sam's waist and he keeps rumbling while pressing his forehead against Sam's side. Sam's fingers twitch, wanting to run through the program's dark hair like he's a cat and not, well, a person-shaped program.

A shifting sound has him looking up and seeing Crystal sitting in her white bubble chair, legs crossed and chin resting on her propped arm, her other hand holding a tall thin glass of green energy. She's entranced by the MP3s working the crowd and doesn't seem to notice him, but Sam flushes anyway and slides his hand away from the back of Tron's head.

The brief flick of her eyes tells him she knows he's awake.

"Uh...this isn't what it looks like."

She tilts her head towards him and arches an eyebrow. "I don't doubt that."

She spins the chair around and stops it with her foot so that she's facing him. She sits back, tapping the bottom of the glass against the chair. "Your light runner is at the edge of the sector. I'll give you its location when you're ready to leave. You can reach the Outlands from there."

He nods and she turns her head to watch her club. Sam looks down at Tron and finds himself a little reluctant to wake the program out of rest; there's something striking about the serene look on his face and Sam doesn't want to disturb it.

"What are you going to do," Crystal suddenly says, and Sam jerks his head up, feels his face flush again while his circuits flicker, "once you have what you came for?"

He knows what she's asking. He's been thinking about it ever since he came back to the Grid and found Tron waiting for him. This place isn't so much a living memory as it is a thriving world - if one could call the chaotic and lawless Grid "thriving" - and the longer he's here the more he realizes how badly it needs a User's guidance. The Grid calls to him, asking for his help; he's the one here brimming with power and potential, the one who can rebuild it and make it even better.

There's something alluring about a world that he can create with a few lines of code, something about a place full of light and technological magic that the real world can only dream of in movies and games. In a way he finally understands why his father would have liked to stay here all the time, building and perfecting with Tron and Clu by his side.

_Tron. _Sam looks down at the program again, thinking back on all the stories Flynn told about the hero of the Grid and imagining how hellish things must've been for him between the Reintegration and Sam's return.

_"User."_

Zuse's words creep into his mind about the state of TRON City. All those sectors they ran through, all the attacks, the necessity of using shortcuts to cross sectors instead of the streets and highways he's seen...

"Sam?" the Siren asks.

He stares at the white lines of his bodysuit while thinking about the answer, about what it'll mean for him and the future of the Grid.

"Guess Dad's company isn't the only thing I'm taking over," he says slowly. "Besides, I helped create this mess. The least I can do is help clean it up."

He mirrors the smile on Crystal's face. She then turns her chair around so that she faces the transparent barrier and the club scene. "After the Reintegration a lot of programs gave up hope. I didn't. Several programs and I established this sector as a neutral zone while we waited."

"For what?"

"You. With you on the Grid TRON City has a chance. With you the city the Creator built can come back."

There's a slight tremor in her normally cool and controlled voice, the smallest hint of enthusiasm and hope that makes Sam nervous.

"I can't undo all the damage Clu did to the Grid," he says carefully. "I can't do what Dad did."

"But you can do _something_. You're a User. A _Creator_. It's all that matters." She turns her head and looks him in the eye. "You can save us all."

Her eyes flick downwards to Tron and Sam realizes he's brushing the program's hair with his hand, stills it and pulls it back.

"Every program on the Grid has a function here, a purpose, but Tron was designed to function independent of the system. It's why Clu repurposed him at the very beginning, turned him into his weapon. He's the Grid's greatest warrior and he'll die protecting the city, but all they'll ever see is Rinzler."

She stands up and glances down at Tron again. Sam follows her line of sight and notices that the four squares on the security program's chest are blinking rapidly while the other lines on his body start to glow blue. The purring fades as Tron starts booting up.

"The only reason why he survived this long is because he still believes in the Users," Crystal says as she turns and walks to the door. "He still believes in_ you_."

* * *

><p>Sam does a double take at the program leaning against the light runner.<p>

"You again."

Enyo gives him a little wave as she pushes off the vehicle and saunters over to him and Tron. "Me again. By the way, I saw what happened back there. Very impressive. Inspiring, even; the city can't stop talking about it. Rumors abound that a User is walking amongst us, promising order and freedom from chaos."

She sets her arms on her hips and tilts her head up at him, raises an eyebrow and grins cheekily at him. Sam takes an involuntary step back, says, "I think you're getting way ahead of yourself."

"Don't look at me. It's what I _heard_." She then tilts her head to Tron and the knowing smile on her face softens. "It's always nice seeing a program with a purpose again, especially after everything you've been through."

Tron looks taken back, not expecting those words from her mouth. His expression becomes more troubled even as Enyo reaches out and rests her hand on his arm in a comforting manner.

"Be patient. They'll forgive you. Just keep doing whatever you're doing."

It feels like Enyo's passing judgment on them, which is really weird since as far as Sam can tell she's just a random search program who overheard them talking about light runners in a sector on the other side of the city. A helpful program, but not someone he thought he'd meet again, let alone here with the light runner Crystal promised them.

Enyo gives Tron's arm a reassuring squeeze and steps back. She looks up at Sam and then nods to the light runner. "I hope you find what you came here for, Sam Flynn. Good luck, and try not to crash the light runner. They're hard to come by."

"Can't promise you that," he mutters and she laughs.

She turns to leave and Tron suddenly takes a half-step forward, says, "Who are you?"

"I thought we went over this." She smiles and Sam is suddenly reminded of Crystal and Gem. "I'm Enyo, a search program, nice to meet you. Crystal and I established this sector as a neutral zone many cycles ago. Well, we _were _a neutral zone, but now that we're harboring a User..."

Enyo shrugs and practically bounces away, leaving them with a yellow-lit light runner and a short road that ends at the wild Outlands. Sam frowns after her as she rounds the corner and disappears, wondering what she's so giddy about, while Tron goes to the light runner and opens the hatch; under his hand the vehicle's circuitry flickers and changes to blue.

"Sam," the security program calls out. "Get in."

As he climbs into the passenger's seat he says, "Had the light runner all along. Could've given it to us at any time."

The hatch lowers down over their heads, sealing them in. Tron starts fiddling the controls and they light up; the light runner shifts, adjusting its suspension while studs form on the massive tires.

"Probably," Tron says as he steers the light runner around to face the Outlands, "but they needed a reason."

_Everyone needs a reason, _Sam thinks as the light runner picks up speed. "I didn't tell them anything. Just said I needed to get to the Outlands."

He's not sure what to make of Tron's small smile as the light runner hits rough terrain and rapidly puts distance between them and TRON City.

"That's not the reason they're looking for."


	6. 6

**We Are Pilots**

**6**

Sheer walls of rock confine them to a narrow twisting pathway through the canyon. Considering that the only thing illuminating the path is the light runner's circuits it's a nerve-wracking ride, made worse by the oppressive overcast sky and the silence on his left. Unlike Quorra Tron is all business behind the controls; he hasn't said a single word, probably to concentrate on not crashing the light runner, but that doesn't make Sam feel any safer. Everything's a blur outside and he wonders how fast they're going, how Tron can control the vehicle at such speeds.

It feels like forever before they're finally free of the canyon. The claustrophobic feeling disappears and Sam relaxes - just a bit - before sitting up as a question comes to mind.

"You know where we're going?"

"Yes."

The light runner dips as the ground drops a foot and his stomach jumps up his throat. Sam can't bring himself to pry his fingers off the edge of his seat even though they're starting to hurt.

"How? You've never been there-"

"A second generation lightcycle was recovered downtown cycles ago. We traced its point of origin to a remote location deep in the Outlands."

Tron's words hit Sam like a punch in the gut. He hadn't been thinking when he took the lightcycle and went back to the city to find Zuse; he had no idea Clu could trace the lightcycle's route back to his father.

"Shit." His hands clench while he stares at his reflection on the glass. A million possible scenarios cross his mind, none of them ending optimistically. He stares out the window, mutters, "I didn't know."

"They were long gone by the time we arrived," Tron says. "He knew they were going after you. All he needed to know was where _you_were going."

Sam sighs and closes his eyes as the light runner picks up speed, and then abruptly opens them when the vehicle rocks violently on its suspension and his heart starts climbing up his throat. Tron gives him a sharp look but says nothing.

They leave it at that for what feels like forever. Sam leans against the side of the light runner, watching the Outlands go by like a lifeless, gloomy side scroller. The sky stays dark and overcast while the landscape flips between massive canyons and craggy mountains. Even with the program next to him Sam feels lonely and insignificant; he can't imagine what it must've been like for his father.

The ground suddenly evens out and he sits up straight; they're deep in the mountains but now he can make out artificial structures, crude buildings nestled in the shadows. The light runner climbs over the rubble of a wall that ran from mountainside to mountainside and suddenly they're in the heart of a ghost town.

"Where the hell are we?" Sam asks. He'd never been here before, not when Quorra was taking him to Flynn and not when he was racing back to TRON City. "What is this place?"

"An ISO colony." Sam can barely hear Tron over the light runner's engine. "Built here at the beginning of the Purge. It was one of the last to fall."

Something about the tone of his voice has Sam glancing at the program; his breath hitches at the vivid anguish in Tron's face and suddenly he can't breathe, can't feel anything besides the constricting pain in his chest.

Tron was here when the colony was destroyed. There's no other explanation for the sudden break in his mask, the raw expression where for the past several hours there was none. In fact he might've even led the attack, and he couldn't do anything about it because it wasn't really_ him_.

The light runner suddenly lurches forward and the empty structures become a blur. Sam doesn't look away from Tron as they quickly put the colony behind them; he wants to say something, do something, wants so badly to get rid of Tron's grief and guilt, but he doesn't know where to start. He clenches and unclenches his hands as he tries to come up with something but his mind draws an awful blank.

The light runner heads straight for the narrow tunnel at the base of a sheer rock wall but Sam doesn't flinch. He still holds his breath until they come out the other side and start climbing upwards. He has no idea how Tron manages all the turns with practiced ease, how he manages not to lose it after that.

And maybe that's the problem. Tron had nowhere and no one to turn to after the Reintegration so he just kept it all inside. He kept going because he didn't know what else to do, didn't know how else to forgive himself and move on. With Sam here that resolve's shaking, cracking, breaking him even has he tries to ignore it and pretend he's okay.

Sam can't let Tron do that to himself.

"Maybe we should stop," he hears himself say.

No answer.

"Pull over."

He can see his father's safe house near the top of the outcrop the road is leading them to, but he's in no mood to look for the answers to his questions right now.

"Damn it, Tron." He reaches across the center console and grabs the program's forearm. The light runner lurches again, losing momentum, as Tron stiffens under his hand. "Pull over. We have to talk."

He doesn't let go even after the light runner slides to a stop next to the tunnel. He doesn't think he can, not with the way Tron just sits there, head bowed, hands gripping the controls like they're what's grounding him, what's keeping him from falling apart.

The silence in the light runner is tense and full of unspoken words. Sam doesn't know what to say. He's no good at this; he was never one for having a heart to heart with anyone, especially considering where _he's_ coming from. This is Tron, though; Sam can't-_won't _let him suffer like this anymore.

"That wasn't you," he says slowly, watching Tron close his eyes. "You didn't kill the ISOs. You weren't...Clu's attack dog. You can't...it's not your fault. I don't want to go _Good Will Hunting _on you but you have to understand that. Everything you remember doing, that wasn't you. That was all Clu, and he's gone."

There's nothing from Tron. Sam swallows around the lump in his throat and shifts in his seat, twists around and leans on the center console while tightening his grip on the program's arm.

"I can't-I didn't even ask for your help, but you gave it anyway. You-you fought for me, defended me, showed me that there's more to this place than…than a bunch of memories. But you won't save yourself. You won't give yourself a chance and-and I can't see you like that. Don't do this to yourself." He takes a shuddering breath, hoarsely adds, "Please."

He has nothing else to say, isn't sure if he changed anything or just embarrassed the hell out of himself. Sam sits back and lets go of the program's arm, then freezes when Tron grabs his hand and presses it back down on his forearm. Sam waits, heart beating loudly in his ear, warmth spreading up his arm as Tron curls his fingers around his hand and opens his eyes.

"I can't promise anything," he says. "But I'll try."

Tron lifts his head and gives Sam an uncertain smile. It makes something in Sam's chest constrict and flood his body with tightly coiled heat; he's the one who returns it with a shaky grin, who feels off-kilter like the world tilted violently on its axis and he can't find his footing anymore.

"Yeah. Okay, so, uh-" His voice cracks and Sam clears his throat. It's the most conspicuous sound he's ever made. "I guess we should keeping going."

Tron nods and lets him go. While he turns the light runner around and takes them into the tunnel Sam stares down at his hand, rubs the back of it with his thumb while counting the lights as they flick on to show the way. He tries not to think about the shift in his head but he can still hear his heartbeat, now in rapid tandem with the lights, telling him that there's no going back.

* * *

><p>They don't talk or look at each other on the lift. Tron stands a distance away, facing the shaft and seemingly lost in his thoughts, and Sam, well, he doesn't really know what to think. He's not sure how he feels either, and he doesn't want to take a look. The anxiety and nervous energy that has him flexing his fingers and shifting from foot to foot is getting worse; Sam thinks, with some desperation, that he's just worried about what he might find in the abandoned house.<p>

In another time he'd quip about this being a possible contender for the most awkward elevator ride ever.

At first glance everything looks exactly the way they did when Sam left with the old lightcycle. He takes a cautious step off the lift as his eyes search in the gloom for hidden surprises; as soon as his foot touches the floor the building lights up, casting everything in a soft white glow. He scans the room as he walks to the center of it; a few books had been haphazardly shoved back into the shelf lining the wall and someone had upended the go board, scattering the black and white pieces all over the backlit floor panels.

Out of the corner of his eye he sees Tron drift towards the books and tilt his head to the side to study the print on the spine. The program lifts his hand up to tug a book out but hesitates.

"It's not going to bite," Sam says and tries not to laugh when Tron shoots him an indignant look.

Finding nothing else out of the ordinary he walks into the next room and almost steps on a silver apple. He picks it up and stares at his distorted reflection, then looks around and notices another apple on the floor.

"Someone had a fit," he mutters as he ends up with an armful of silver apples, candle holders, and a bowl.

He dumps them on one of the couches in front of the fireplace and lingers to pick up a deactivated Bit. Seeing nothing else, he goes back to the main room. Tron is completely engrossed in one of the books and doesn't acknowledge him as he walks by. He reminds Sam of Quorra, who could spend days reading books; the only difference between them is that while she's in a state of permanent glee when reading Tron looks intent on memorizing every printed word.

Shaking his head, Sam goes down the steps to small hallway leading to the room he'd been given, like a guest his father may or may not have been expecting. The door is wide open but like most other things nothing's been disturbed. Sam goes to the shelves on the wall and studies the decor, picks up a few objects and turns them over in his hand. The white dresser across the room is empty; he even pushes it to the side but there's no hidden compartment behind it.

He finds his way to Quorra's room and enters with some apprehension; even though she's not here he still feels like he's intruding on her private space, her thousand-year-old prison-like haven from Clu's system. He pads around the room, glancing at the delicate crystal perfume bottles on the dresser under a mirror, and remembers her excitement upon discovering real perfume; the look on the sales clerk's face as she tested every bottle on her arm had been priceless.

The only things in the drawers are a copy of Jules Verne's _Around the World in Eighty Days _and what looks suspiciously like a diary. He holds up the diary, pages down, and shakes it to see if anything falls out. He doesn't dare open it, not wanting to pry into her innermost thoughts even though she's not here but on the other side, waiting for him to come back. Nothing's hiding between the pages of the novel either, so Sam puts them back in the drawer, shuts it, and closes the door behind him as he leaves.

There's one section of the house he hasn't checked but Sam isn't up to poking around it yet. Instead he goes looking for Tron.

He finds Tron out on the deck next to the shallow pool, hands clasped behind his back while he stares out across the Outlands to the distant lights of TRON City. Sam crosses the transparent barrier, breath hitching momentarily at the change in pressure and the rush of cool air. He sits down on the steps behind the program, eyes darting between the blue circuits and the cluster of lights on the horizon line; from here the city is a blur, a multitude of cyan fireflies, an echo of the bold and bright system Sam remembers. High above the Grid shines the portal's beacon, a stark reminder of why he's here.

He wonders what his father must've felt when he saw that bright star and realized that someone had found the room under the arcade, had figured out how to activate the digitizer, had come in from the other side. After a thousand years something had finally changed…and he had wanted to wait and watch anyway. Maybe he thought the mere sight of the lit portal would incite the programs, "foment a revolution". Flynn had no idea how much things had changed in twenty years, no idea how well Clu perfected the system Sam accidentally stumbled onto. He spent so many years out here, watching and waiting and mastering the art of Zen, that he forgot how to take the opportunity when it presented itself to him. The portal, his own son standing in the safe house, the dream of Tron…

"He had a dream about you," Sam says. Tron tilts his head to the side. "Said he hadn't had one in a long time."

He doesn't know why he said it; it wasn't meant for anyone but Quorra. But what his father did tell him, with nostalgia and longing shaping in his voice, his face, his posture as he explained why he never came home that night, was enough for Sam to add, "He never forgot you."

He watches Tron carefully, wondering what he'd say, how he'd react. Flynn's words echo in his head - _"Tron fought for me. I never saw him again." _- while he waits for the program's response. Out of everyone it's him who needs to know that his efforts weren't in vain. He might have failed to stop Clu but he gave Flynn a chance. If it weren't for Tron Flynn and Sam would have never met.

At the thought his heart somersaults again and Sam presses a hand to his sternum. He looks up at Tron warily but the program's back is still turned to him. He hasn't said a word, hasn't reacted to any of his words in an obvious way.

"Tron?"

Finally he moves, head turning so that Sam can see his profile against the dim cyan glow.

"You haven't checked one area yet," Tron says, his voice so soft it almost disappears under the lapping water and the rather brisk wind.

Well, that went well.

Sam leans over and dips his fingers in the water; it's freezing and he quickly yanks his hand away, rubs it on his thigh before rising to his feet. As he goes up the steps back into the house he looks over his shoulder; Tron is watching the city but now his arms are hanging at his side, hands clenched tightly.

He decides to take his leave and see if there's anything to be found in his father's room.

Flynn's room has no door. Sam can see the bed, the small shelves of books, and the dresser as he enters; he looks underneath the bed and flips through every book, looking for a printout, notes in the margin, a memory chip, a data pad, something, anything.

The top three drawers in the dresser contain a few changes of robes and a dark cloak but the bottom drawer holds something completely different. Sam pulls out a black leather jacket, a dark shirt, and a worn pair of jeans, clothes his father wore the night he never came home.

Sam ends up leaving the shirt and jeans on the floor as he slowly walks to the bed and sits down, clutches the jacket and tries not to bury his face in it to smell the beach and the motor oil in the leather. He rubs his fingers over the worn, smooth texture and closes his eyes; the memories he had clung to then are ragged now, full of gaps and faded with age. He still remembers it hanging off his shoulders as they stood on the now-rebuilt Redondo Beach pier and made bets on the fishermen's catch, still remembers the warm leather wrapped around him as they sat and watched the surf on Santa Monica Beach.

Footsteps approach but he doesn't look up until he hears the soft hum of the program standing in front of him. Tron is staring at the jacket, his face a carefully drawn blank. The cracks are there, though, in the way his shoulders slump forward and his lips press into a thin line. He suddenly looks old and very tired; Sam can almost see the memories in his eyes as he reaches out and tentatively runs his fingertips over the leather. His hand shakes as he pulls it back and the program looks away, circuits flickering.

Sam glances down at the jacket and huffs a laugh, a harsh awkward sound in the heavy silence. He shakes his head, closes his eyes, and tightens his grip on it. "Wish I had more time with him. Wish it didn't have to be about the Grid or Clu or 'removing oneself from the equation' for twenty fucking years."

The mattress dips and Sam stiffens. Slowly he tilts his head to his left and meets Tron's intense gray gaze. The program sits so close that Sam can feel the soft hum and the irregular whir of broken code; the air suddenly becomes thick, heavy with so many unsaid things. Feeling lightheaded and anxious, Sam looks away and swallows against the lump in his throat.

"I'm sorry."

Sam flinches before he can stop himself. "For what?"

Tron doesn't reply because there's nothing else to say. They're just two sorry...well, one sorry User and one sorry program, still lost in the past even as they try to move forward.

Sam starts wondering if coming back to the Grid is a mistake.

"Did you check that interface?" Tron suddenly asks.

Sam looks up and around the room; in finding his father's old clothes he missed the desk in the corner of the room under a window looking out at the Outlands and the city. It's a flat opaque surface in the mold of the touchscreen computers at ENCOM and in the room under the arcade, a jet-black mark in a white and silver room.

He feels Tron's eyes following him as he walks to the desk and pushes aside the chair in front of it. He stares down at his reflection, then presses the palm of his hand on the surface. The desk hums and lights up, revealing a keyboard and several numbered folders.

"Oh shit," he whispers.

The answer, the key to unlocking the Miracle, could be right _here_. Never mind the surreality of a computer within a computer – and Sam quickly quashes any memory of the questions Quorra kept peppering him after the first time they saw_ Inception_. He grins as relief floods his senses and six months of stress and worry slide off his shoulders.

He hears Tron approach and looks over his shoulder at the program. "Check it out."

The first two folders reveal plans for the Grid, including expanding cities – there was more than one? - and sectors Sam has never heard of. The notes are peppered with "ISOs", "Isomorphic Algorithms", and "the Miracle" but Flynn never seems to go into detail about them. Every few lines he looked ready to expand on their digital DNA, what the nature of their origins meant for function and free will, what ways he and the ISOs could change the world, but he never did; just as quickly Flynn skipped to the next thing, the next event, the next idea.

_Like a kid in a candy store ,_Sam muses as his finger hovers over the third folder. He then rereads its label.

_1989._

A slow chill works up his spine as he looks at the next folder.

_1990_.

The last folder is labeled _1991_.

"What is it?" Tron asks.

Sam shakes his head; his index and middle fingers hover over the three folders as he tries to pick between them. He knows what they are, what they have to be, but he can't bring himself to find out. He just can't.

He suddenly feels a warm hum at his back, a steady presence quietly telling him that everything's okay even when they're not. "Sam."

His hand is shaking. Sam swallows hard, curls his fingers into a fist, then flexes them and taps on _1991_, bringing up a massive list of unlabeled files. Except for the number they're undistinguishable; if one of the files contains his father's dreams for the ISOs Sam could be stuck here for ages finding it.

With a quick glance over his shoulder at Tron he picks a file near the bottom of the list and taps on it.

Sam can't breathe.

His father's face, neck, and shoulders take up the entire screen; he's still young, still too much like Clu, but there are wrinkles in his face that Sam couldn't remember and a deep sadness in his eyes that just _hurts_.

_"So...finally found out what happened to Yori."_

Tron takes a step back. Sam keeps staring at his father, who sighs, rubs his stubbled face with his hand, and squares his shoulders before continuing.

_"She was hiding in the Outlands with other members of the resistance. Someone ratted them out and Clu's forces destroyed them. That's all Fletcher managed to tell me before he derezzed._

_"So I guess that's it. Everybody I know is gone. Clu's too strong now. The only ones left are fighting a losing battle and all I can do is watch from a distance. If I go back on the Grid Clu'll be after me. Game over."_

Flynn sighs again, closes his eyes tightly, and presses the heel of his hand to his temple. _"I don't know why I'm still doing this. Don't know why I'm making these when I'm not even gonna watch them later…and there's no way you'll find your way here. So this isn't for you. This isn't for anyone._

_"But...just in case, if you __ever find your way here, I want to tell you that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never came home that night, kiddo. What I'd give...what I'd give to spend a year, a month, a week, a day, an hour with you. I miss you so much, Sam. You have no idea."_

He shakes his head and sits back, eyes wet and hands clasped together in front of him like he's about to pray. _"Guess that's it for this millicycle. Need to check on the ISO in the other room; she still hasn't woken up yet. I don't know how she managed to survive for so long. She's lucky I got there when I did; she's a rare bird, too rare for the Grid. All I can do now is keep her safe, and wait for Clu to screw up big time._

_"Until then all I can do is hope for some kind of miracle."_

* * *

><p><em>"I wonder how ENCOM is doing with its CEO stuck in a server. They haven't been happy with me for months. They're probably happy I'm gone"<em>

_"So Bostrum fell."_

_"Had a dream about Tron again. I should've done more that day, but I didn't. He told me to run and I did. I didn't stay and fight. Now he's dead because of me. It's my fault. Mine."_

_"If we win back the Grid I'm developing the Outlands. Found several ISO colonies here, all hiding from Clu. Terrible place. The gridbugs are a constant problem."_

_"I wish your mother was still alive."_

_"I made Clu in my image. All I did was program him to design the best possible system. I don't understand; what went wrong?"_

_"There's no Miracle. He destroyed them all."_

_"This is the last one. You'll never see this, but I just want to say that I'm sorry. I'm sorry I never came home. Sorry we never got to play doubles, sorry we never got to play on the same team._

_"I hope you grow up without this hanging over your head. If you don't…follow in my footsteps, if you give up the company to do your own thing, that's fine with me; at least you won't have to spend an entire week arguing with the board of directors or getting chewed out by Alan for being underdressed practically every day._

_"I wish I could see you grow up and become a better person than me. Kind of hoping Mom and Dad do that for me since I'll...since I won't be there for you._

_"So I guess this is goodbye."_


	7. 7

**We Are Pilots**

**7**

Sam double-checks his Light Disc for Flynn's old plans for the Grid before locking it into place on his back. He shuts down the display and turns to leave but hesitates when he sees his reflection on the darkened surface. He looks older than his twenty-eight years, with the eyes of a tired man; he shivers, grabs the leather jacket, and quickly leaves the room.

He stops just past the doorway at the sight of Tron standing by the books again, flipping through a particularly hefty tome mechanically. This time there aren't any cracks in his blank face and the barrier between the program and the rest of the world seems stronger than ever.

"Hey."

Tron's eyes flick up to him. They're guarded and wary, an eerie shade of blue-gray. Sam ends up looking down at his feet, then around the room to the transparent wall. The sky above TRON City is clear, giving him an unobstructed view of the portal. He wonders what his father felt as he watched the portal close, trapping him inside and locking him out of his life on the other side.

"What are you going to do?" Tron asks.

Sam doesn't have an answer. He feels lost again, drifting in limbo without sail or rudder, at the mercy of the currents. He was so sure he'd find something here. Two hours later he has a head full of his father's words and memories, and no answer.

How do you change the world when you don't even know what to look for or where to start?

"Don't know."

He gives Tron a wide berth as he walks to the lift. Tron shuts the book and pushes it back into the shelf, follows him to the platform. The panels dim as Sam steps on it, throwing the house into darkness.

Sam watches Tron out of the corner of his eye as the lift sinks down to the ground level. The program is standing absolutely still, arms hanging stiffly at his side, face tilted down. Like before he's lost in thought but Sam can see the heavy weight of the newfound knowledge in the furrowed eyebrows, the thin line of his mouth, and the slight slump of his shoulders, Sam wonders if he changed the same way.

The light runner and the long seemingly endless tunnel come into view. Tron steps off the lift before it reaches the floor and makes a beeline for the vehicle but Sam doesn't move, not yet.

"Hey."

Tron looks up and the hooded gaze seems to look right through him. Sam takes a deep breath, ignoring the hammering in his chest, and gives Tron a shrug and a smile.

"Guess I'll do what Users do – make it up as I go."

He catches a glimpse of Tron's mouth curving upward as he slides into the light runner. Sam feels something swell up in his chest as he walks to the blue-lit vehicle. However fleeting the few seconds are it feels like for once everything's going to be okay.

* * *

><p>"I'm sorry. About Yori. I…sorry."<p>

Tron doesn't say anything for so long that Sam wonders if he should've kept his mouth shut, so he starts when the program quietly says, "Thank you."

It's been well over an hour since they left the safe house and that's all they can say. They came all this way – fought past programs, crashed a stolen light jet, had an embarrassing and difficult heart to heart –only to find the answers they weren't looking for.

That's the gist of it, isn't it? Sam came here looking for something Flynn left behind, some secret file or clues mapping out an idea of what Quorra's potential could be short of putting her under the microscope. He found none of it in the hundreds of video files that were left behind and it makes him wonder what Flynn talked about that night months ago.

Bio-digital jazz, he said. A gift to the world. But the recordings said differently, the haggard face and weary voice shifting focus from confusion and despair over Clu's betrayal and the Purge to sadness and acceptance of his situation. His dreams for the Grid and the ISOs were nothing, a later file said. Just dust in the wind. None of it mattered compared to what Flynn lost.

_"None of it matters anymore. The Grid, the ISOs, expanding the digital frontier? It means nothing. It was you all along, Sam. You're what matters. I kept chasing that impossible dream and I left you behind. I'm so sorry."_

Sam runs his hand over the leather jacket in his lap; his heart pounds in his chest every time he hears his father's voice in his head. He kept talking like Sam'll find his way here one day and watch them. A fool's dream, Flynn had said, because he didn't want Sam to come here and lose touch with the real world.

_Too late now, Dad,_ Sam thinks as he stares out the window at the barren Outlands._ Too late for everything._

He wishes they had more time, wishes they met under different circumstances. Hell, finding him in Costa Rica would've been better; they could've had more than stilted conversations about Sam dropping out of CalTech and fixing up the old Ducati.

It'll be nice if he didn't have to wish so much.

One clear thing does emerge from the juxtaposition of emptiness and a chaotic whirlwind in his head. If he and Quorra are going to change the world they're doing it on their own terms. He's not trapping her in a lab, to be poked and prodded by researchers trying to understand her bio-digital makeup.

A rare bird. The last ISO. Fresh-faced and so jubilant about _life_. There's just no way Sam can do that to her.

So they make their own way. Make it up as they go. They can do that.

The tension starts falling away as he repeats his thoughts to himself. Sam leans against the back of his seat and sighs, tilting his head to look at the Outlands. He has no idea where they are in relation to Flynn's house and TRON City; he just knows this isn't the same route they took. He can't blame Tron for wanting to avoid coming across more ghost colonies.

Tron. What about him?

"How are you…" Sam hesitates, not sure what to say. Now that he thinks about it the longer he's around Tron the less sure he is about his words, how he should behave, how to approach the program about, well, everything. He'd really like to not sound tongue-tied and stupid when talking to him but that keeps not being an option.

Even now Tron's giving him a curious look. Sam presses his lips together for a moment and then tries again.

"How are you holding up? You didn't look so-you left pretty quick after the sixth video."

"I thought it was better if you watched the videos by yourself," Tron says. He's staring straight ahead, hands gripping the light runner's controls tightly.

Sam knows what he saw, what he heard. In almost every video his father said something about Tron, something about how he should've done _something _at that moment of betrayal.

_"I shouldn't have run. I shouldn't have left you behind. If I stopped him right there I could've ended all of this before it even began. But I ran. I left you to die. What kind of friend am I?"_

"But how are you holding up?"

He flicks his eyes to Tron again and this time the program is smiling. It's always a small one, a slight bittersweet curve that keeps leaving Sam even more lightheaded and confused than before. Tron's looking at him, too, and there's a warm cast in his gray eyes.

"I'm okay," he says and it's the first time Sam truly believes him. "I just need to…process the information. It was more than I expected."

Sam huffs a laugh and sits back, wonders if there's enough room for him to prop his feet up on the dashboard. "Yeah, I know. Wasn't at all what I was looking for, but…"

He pauses as his gaze drops down to the leather jacket and then up to the distant flickering star in the sky.

His dreams about that night six months ago, the nightmares and wishes about the way things could've turned out, are explainable. Excusable. The restlessness, the feeling that he doesn't feel quite right in his own skin, the reason why Dillinger and senior members of ENCOM said those things about him, and the near-obsessive drive to see his father's decades-old dream come true are gone or fading away.

Maybe his father just got so caught up in the dizzying shock of their reunion that he started talking about all the things he had planned for this place like they were tangible again and within reach. Maybe Sam had been so blinded by his lifelong search that he forgot it wasn't up to him to change the world the way Flynn saw it, that seeing those dreams become reality wouldn't bring him closer to a father who wasn't here anymore.

Flynn's visions of a digital future were almost as unreachable as perfection. Changing the world the way his father saw it was never in Sam's cards. By the last video Flynn had finally surrendered the dreams that took him from what really mattered and Sam is just now realizing that what mattered was in front of him all along – Quorra and ENCOM, and the Grid.

The vice grip around his mind isn't there anymore. Sam can finally let go.

"I found what I need. What I _needed_. Have to change a lot of things but that's fine, I can deal with that. Q and I can deal with that."

"Quorra." Tron says her name slowly and in a way that reminds Sam of the baffled kids she threw their Frisbee back to at Griffith Park last week. "How is she?"

Sam can't remember him ever asking about her. "She's fine. Took her a while to get used to my world, though." He shakes his head and laughs at the memories. "She's doing great, actually. Really loves it there. Picked things up so fast it's almost…inhuman. She's working for ENCOM now, writing software, one-upping Dillinger, helping relaunch Dad's old games."

"Does she miss the Grid?"

He looks at Tron, surprised by the blunt question. Even then he can hear the reluctance in the program's voice, the guilt still leaking in. _We need to work on that. _"She-she does, but not enough to come back. Not yet. She said there's nothing for her here."

Nothing but a broken Grid that desperately needs the guidance of a User. That's one weight that's moved from Flynn's shoulders to Sam's, one that he's willing to take up.

"I see," Tron says in a careful, neutral tone.

Silence settles back into the light runner as they head towards a network of canyons. Sam can't see the city but the faint glow of its lights are unmistakable. Clouds have drifted into the sky, obscuring the portal's light. Then they plunge into the canyons and all he sees are the vehicle's blue circuits lighting up their path.

"When we rebuild the Grid," Tron suddenly says, "there should be something she can come back to."

Sam looks at him in surprise. Tron smiles back, then looks up, frowns, and abruptly changes course. The light runner scrapes by the steep rock wall on its right as it emerges at a fork and careens to the left. The passageway narrows considerably, the sides of the canyon curving towards each other and obscuring the sky.

"What the hell was that?" Sam demands as he scrambles back into his seat.

The light runner's lights go out as it speeds along the curving path; they're now traveling in near darkness, the blurring canyon walls dimly lit by their circuitry. Sam curls his fingers around the edge of his seat and barely manages not to slide forward or bang his head against the hatch as Tron makes a sharp turn and the vehicle's wheels bump against stone. All the while the program keeps looking up like there's something overhead.

"We're being followed."


	8. 8

**We Are Pilots**

**8**

"Followed? Are you kidding me?" Sam looks up just as the light runner makes another turn and bangs his head against the glass. "Fuck! By what?"

"Who. After the Reintegration there was another purge, this time of programs loyal to Clu, or rectified by him." Tron glances up, then pushes something on the center console; the light runner becomes almost airborne as it streaks through the canyon. " These are most likely Sentries and Black Guards."

"Clu's dead. He's been dead for _months_; why fight when the whole Grid's falling apart?"

"We're programs," Tron says. "It's our function."

"Well you're pretty self-aware for a program."

"That's partially Flynn's fault."

There's a light at the end of the tall, narrow tunnel and it's TRON City, glowing cyan and beautiful. Something flicks overhead and Sam glances up; a dark shape jumps over the gap between cliffs and behind them is a dull red-orange glow.

"Shit, they're in the canyon with us."

That convinces Tron to go even _faster_, which didn't seem even seem possible considering how fast they're already going. Sam presses back against his seat as the light runner's chassis rocks on its suspension; the going is still rocky and then it gets a little more nerve-wracking when they careen around what could be called a sharp turn and the tires scrape the wall. Overhead Sam can now make out the silhouettes of darkened lightcycles racing along the cliffs with them, circuits a dull red throb.

"I thought lightcycles can't go off-Grid!"

"They can, but only if you know where you're going," Tron says, and Sam remembers the relatively smooth and uncomplicated ride to Zuse's sector, guided by the coordinates Quorra gave him.

The program presses a button on the center console and mines tumble out behind the light runner. Sam looks over his shoulder and sees them blink rapidly. "Hold on."

Sam slams back in his seat as the light runner accelerates. Just ahead is an open stretch of rough terrain; beyond that is the Grid. As they approach the end of the ravine Tron pushes another button and missile launchers rezz on the light runner. He angles them up at the canyon walls and they discharge. Behind them the mines explode with a blue-white roar.

"Holy shit!" Sam jerks away from the side of the vehicle, instinctively bringing his arm up to shield his face as the canyon collapses on them. The light runner pushes through the falling rubble and shattering code out into the clear. Sam lowers his arm and, upon seeing the sky unobstructed, breathes a sigh of relief. He then twists around in his seat to look for their pursuers.

"I don't see them-"

The light runner makes a sudden hard left. Sam slams into the glass as the vehicle skids across the ground and stops just short of colliding with a large red-orange light ribbon. He stares, jaw slack and heart pounding, as the other light runner circles them and cuts them off from TRON City.

"Are you kidding me?" he demands as lightcycles approach from all directions.

This time their pursuers make no effort to hide themselves; all but one bears Clu's red-orange circuitry, and the lone yellow program looks oddly familiar. Sam can't keep his eyes off of it as the programs dismount; the name's on the tip of his tongue.

"Remove yourself from the light runner," a program orders in a deep mechanized monotone.

"Oh great," Sam mutters. "What, we can't run over them?"

Tron turns his head, raises an eyebrow, and then points at the other light runner's missile launchers, which are trained on them. Sam groans and slumps in his seat. "Shit."

"You know what we want," the tall yellow program says loudly. "Give us Sam Flynn, _Tron_."

Not this again.

Sam looks at the other light runner and the rippling light ribbon, then sweeps his eyes over the programs standing in a semicircle around them. Many have begun pulling out staffs, beam katanas, and Light Discs. The only viable escape route is cut off and the odds of surviving this unscathed is unlikely but there's no way Sam's giving himself up.

"Not liking our chances here," he mutters as he slowly reaches over his shoulder for his Light Disc, and then freezes when Tron slams a baton into his chest. "What-"

"The odds of both of us escaping are too low," Tron says. He's watching the programs, tracking their every move. "If worst comes to worst I can distract them long enough for you to get back to the city-"

"No." Sam tries to shrug off the program's arm, refusing to look at the baton. "No way. Not a chance."

"Sam-"

"You're not getting away with it." Tron looks at him sharply and Sam presses on. "We're not doing this. No way in hell I'm running from this." He tries to push the baton back but Tron won't give way. "You hear me?"

"I heard you, but you should still take it. Just in case."

He leaves no room for arguments or protests, just looks straight at Sam. In this moment he looks exactly like how Sam used to imagine him - the protector of the Grid, the Users' defender, firm and unyielding and utterly determined to do the right thing. This is what Tron is supposed to be and he's becoming this again because of Sam.

Without thought Sam wraps his fingers around the baton, brushing Tron's hand; something flickers across the program's face as he lets go and turns back around to reassess their situation. Tron rests his hand on the release latch and quietly says, "And stay behind me."

Sam tucks the baton away as Tron releases the hatch and charged air flows into the light runner. He eyes the rippling light ribbon as he slides out and squeezes between it and the vehicle, glances at the other light runner every other step as he walks around to Tron's side.

The tall yellow program - _Sigma_; she tried to kill him - stands in the middle of the semi-circle with a rather imposing and distinctively marked Black Guard. Tron tenses as he tilts his head towards the new program while Sam stares straight at Sigma, fingers flexing and ready to grab his disk at a moment's notice.

Her helmet retracts from her head as she speaks. "So, _Sam_, how has your time been in the Grid? Liked what you saw?"

"Well that depends," Sam says as he slides another half-step towards Tron. "Thought we went over this. What do you want with me now? And where's your buddy, Octane? Hanging out with these guys now? Thought you were anti-Clu."

"Cute, but derailing isn't going to help you. I'll make this simple - give us your Light Disc and Tron walks free."

"I thought you wanted him to kill-wait, didn't you call him Rinzler-"

"We did." A beam katana materializes in her hand and she points its glowing yellow blade at Tron, stopping him from moving in front of Sam. "That was before a User started walking around, upsetting the status quo like this one time twenty-five point two cycles ago. The city can deal with him. We just want you."

"You can't have him." Tron grabs his disk and presses its blazing blue edge against the beam katana. "Back off."

The surrounding Sentries raise their weapons but the Black Guard next to Sigma holds a hand up.

"You're outnumbered, Tron," he says, spitting the name out like it's corrupting his mouth. His helmet retracts, revealing a deep crack running through his left eye and down to his jaw; it reminds Sam of one of the programs held on the Recognizer with him a long time ago. "Do you really think you'll be any more successful than you were the last time?"

"What's he talking about?" Sam demands.

"When Clu took over he cornered us to take Flynn's disk. I bought him enough time to escape."

What he's not saying, and what Sam picks up immediately, is that saving Flynn didn't stop Clu from successfully purging the Grid of the ISOs and creating "the perfect system". And all Tron's sacrifice did was give Clu the chance to create the perfect weapon to enforce his system.

Sam watches the security program and a pit forms in his chest as Tron falters, stance a little less sure as he lowers his disk a few inches. He steps forward and around Tron, says, "So you want my disk. What happens if I give it up?"

He doesn't like the way Sigma's eyes flick between him and Tron. "We might let him go, let the city deal with him as they see fit. But not you, no. Can't afford to have you running around the Grid."

"You must think I'm really dumb if you think I'm turning myself over to you."

"Where can you go?" The Black Guard points up at the sky. "The portal's closed; even if you escape us you're trapped here, and you know don't even know how most of us feel about you. Twenty-five cycles is a long time to come to certain conclusions about you."

A chill runs up his spine as he looks over his shoulder at the sky above TRON City's darkened skyscrapers; at some point between leaving the safe house and now it closed. He reminds himself that Quorra's on the other side but that doesn't settle the fear rising up in his chest. he's not trapped on the Grid; Quorra's on the other side and she can just open it again. He just has to get out of this alive.

"She knows how to open the portal, right?" Tron asks quietly.

"She's one of ENCOM's best programmers. Don't worry about it." In a louder voice Sam says, "Doesn't matter. You can't have my disk and you can't have me."

"Who said anything about wanting _you_?"

Okay. So they want him dead, want him and his User status out of the way while they retake TRON City. It just keeps getting worse. Like Zuse they want his disk to gain the upper hand in the divided city but this time there _is_ information on it about the Grid. Sam's disk isn't a master key like Flynn's but it _is _a key and there's no way Sam's giving it up.

When he detaches his disk and holds it up defensively in front of him, edge hot white, the Sentries ready their weapons while Sigma smiles and steps back, helmet forming around her head.

"We're screwed," Sam says. "Really, really screwed."

"But you're staying," Tron says.

"You saved Dad. The least I can do is watch your back."

Tron smiles, and then his face disappears under his helmet. Sam takes a deep breath as his visor slides into place; adrenaline and anticipation floods his senses as he waits to see who strikes first.

The other light runner does. Out of the corner of his eye he sees it launch something at them-at their _light runner _and dives out of the way. Sam tucks his head under his arm as the light runner explodes, hisses as hot shards of broken code rain on his back. He lifts in his head just in time to roll out of the way of a Sentry's staff.

"Shit, shit, shit!" He slams the heel of his foot into the program's abdomen, scrambles to his feet, and slices the staggering program open with his disk. He looks over his shoulder at the remains of the light runner - and holy shit, Enyo's going to _kill _them - before twisting out of the way of a beam katana and a Light Disc.

He brings his forearm up to block another Sentry's staff but stumbles back from the force of impact. The program's on him before he can recover but loses his head to one of Tron's disks.

Gripping his disk with shaky fingers Sam looks frantically for a beam katana to gain some leverage. All he finds are Sentry programs closing in on him from all sides. He wonders if someone's going to yell out an order not to kill him, at least not until they've separated him from his disk but then remembers Sigma singling him out, not caring if Octane ordered that he be kept alive.

All Sam can do now is to try to kill them all before they can take him down. He's sure there must be a User-related trick to it but it's hard to figure out what to do when dodging weapons wielded by hostile programs.

Sam slings his Light Disc at a Sentry, then wrestles a staff off of another and slams it into his chest. It's not enough to derezz the program but it throws him off balance, leaving an opening for Sam to stab him clear through. As the program shatters around the staff he swings it at another program. The Sentry catches it between his disk and beam katana, leaving him exposed when Sam lets go of the staff, catches his returning Light Disc, and slams its burning white edge into the base of the program's neck.

Through the cascade of rapidly cooling broken coding Sam sees Tron derezz Sentry after Sentry systematically and with deceptive ease. Despite the blue circuitry Sam can't stop thinking about Rinzler and their battle; it's the way he dodges and twists away from the other programs' blows before taking them out that Sam finds mesmerizing.

Then he's ducking a swing from someone's beam katana, nearly tripping as his toe rams into something on the ground, and loses sight of Tron as the Sentries close ranks. Sam shoulders a program away and turns to deal with another, blocking the beam katana with his disk and pushing the red-orange blade back. Sparks fly as he puts all his weight into it, then twists away and slams it into the Sentry's back as he staggers forward. His arms burn from the effort but Sam only has seconds to catch a breather before he's dodging and deflecting a fiery Light Disc.

Sam loses track of all the Sentries he kills as he shoves his disk and arm through a program's chest, grabs the beam katana out of the derezzing hand, catches another off-guard with a backhanded swing, and derezzes him. Bits of code skitter across his visor as he kicks the next Sentry behind the knee and decapitates him; Sam then spins around and blocks a staff with both disk and katana. He grits his teeth and pushes back, sees something coming at him out of the corner of his eye, and throws himself out of the way at the last second. The two Sentries collide, one derezzing while the other staggers over the uneven ground; Sam quickly pushes himself back up and flings his Light Disc, derezzing the program.

He slices off an approaching Sentry's leg with the beam katana and holds his hand out for his disc. A blur appears in his field of vision and he jerks away as a yellow beam katana deflects his disk; a blow in the side knocks the air out of his lungs and he falls on his hands and knees. He looks up, watching his Light Disc veer out, hit the ground on its side, and roll in the wrong direction - away from him.

Sigma approaches and he looks up at her; she tilts her helmeted head down at him, cocks it to the side, and then brings down her beam katana. Sam rolls out of the way and jumps to his feet. He quickly grabs a discarded staff and brings it up to stop her next attempt to kill him.

"Shit," he hisses through gritted teeth as he feels her put more weight behind her beam katana. The staff is slowly derezzing, bits of code falling to the ground as the blade slowly cuts through it. His knees buckle and then lock into place as he tries to push her off.

"Sam!"

He turns his head to see something blue-white flying through the air at him; he drops and twists out of the way of Tron's disk. With the resistance gone her beam katana moves downward, slicing through Disc Wars armor and bodysuit and managing to break skin right under his shoulder. Sam swears and presses the heel of his hand over the injury while Sigma picks herself off the ground; behind her a Sentry derezzes as Tron's disk boomerangs back to its owner. He feels the sticky blood between skin and suit, an uncomfortable sensation that he's only going to aggravate and make worse.

It's not hard to imagine Sigma's disgust underneath her glossy helmet as she waits for him to get back to his feet. He breathes heavily as he leans down to pick up his beam katana, clenching his jaw as white-hot pain shoots down his arm. So he's built a high tolerance for pain over the years - it comes with riding motorcycles and pranking ENCOM and being an angry teenager once upon a time - but it still hurts like hell.

Sigma starts pacing in a wide circumference around him; behind her a few Sentries stand at attention, weapons in hand. Sam turns half-step by half-step to keep her in sight, left hand trembling as it grips the beam katana.

Behind her Tron derezzes a Sentry and dodges another's beam katana before slamming his disk into the program's chest. He then spins around and blocks the scarred Black Guard's disk. Neither of them give way and none of the surrounding programs join in to tip the scales.

"Why did we worship you like gods when all you ever did was destroy what you created?" Sigma says, pulling his attention away from Tron. "After all this time it still baffles me, this fascination and blind faith in the likes of you."

"Oh, so we're philosophizing now."

"No. I'm just thinking out loud." She twirls her beam katana and points its glowing blade at his right hand, which he presses against his wound. Its tip follows the trail of blood trickling down between his fingers as she says, "Shame. Killing you won't be half as fun."

"Sorry to disappoint."

His eyes keep straying to Tron and she notices. "He can't save you. Commander Lock's wanted a rematch since over a thousand cycles ago."

"That's what happens when you're up against the best," Sam says. He doesn't know what good will come out of stalling her, but he'll take any chance to catch his breath and work out his next move.

"The best won't save you, either," Sigma says and suddenly lunges.

So much for getting a breather.

Sam barely manages to bring up his beam katana to stop hers. He pulls his right hand away from his injury to grip the handle and tries desperately to ignore the welling blood and the agonizing burn. She quickly steps back and swings at him from a different angle; he stumbles as he tries to block her and almost falls.

_Don't fall_, he tells himself desperately as he regains his footing. _You'll never get up._

He wonders if it's a good idea or a really terrible one to break free and run for his disk. He still has the baton Tron gave him and-oh.

He risks taking his eyes off Sigma for a second to scan the terrain for his disk. The hum of a Light Disc pulls him back just in time for him to dodge and parry first her disk and then her beam katana; he stumbles back and almost falls down again. He's getting tired; he's having trouble keeping to his feet and every blow he blocks goes straight to his bones, makes everything ache even more. Holding up the beam katana is becoming a difficult task and his wound throbs, preventing him from using his left arm to full capacity.

Getting on the lightcycle is looking like a good idea right now.

The decision's made for him when he sees two red-orange programs walk quickly from the remaining light runner towards his disk. Blood pounding in his ears, Sam hefts his beam katana, blocks Sigma's blade, and knocks her Light Disc out of her hand. He turns on the balls of his feet and runs; a Sentry steps in his way and Sam ducks under the swinging staff, stabs him in the side with the beam katana. Now there's nothing but space between him and the two Sentries. Sam reaches down, grabs the baton, and pulls it apart as he leaps into the air; the lightcycle rezzes under him and they land heavily on the ground. Sam looks over his shoulder as it streaks across the ground and immediately swerves out of the way of a red-orange Light Disc.

He now gets what Quorra and Tron meant about lightcycles going off-Grid. Unlike light runners lightcycles need either a set course from one point to another or intimate knowledge of this part of the Outlands; he's finding it hard to maneuver over the rough terrain when his only direction is to his disk lying a while away. The lightcycle bumps and skids along as he tries to get to it before the Sentries do.

One of the programs flings his disk; Sam starts reaching for his before remembering it's not there and instead makes a hard left to avoid it. The lightcycle drifts as he tries not to overbalance and topple over. Luckily he manages to right himself; unluckily he doesn't see the other disk until he lifts his head and sees its burning red edge-

The lightcycle slides across the uneven ground before collapsing into a baton; he covers his head as he tumbles along, teeth clenched tightly as his helmet bangs against sharp-edged rocks. Sam comes to a stop on his side and it takes longer than he likes for his mind to stop spinning. He tries to breathe but chokes and hisses at the lancing pain in his side. His head swims and he squeezes his eyes shut while trying to gather himself.

Someone somewhere is yelling his name.

Footsteps rapidly approach. He opens his eyes and slides his right hand across the ground, tries to push himself up on shaking arms. His knuckles hit something hard and he blinks down at his Light Disc. He then up at the approaching Sentry; the other is out of sight. His hand closes around his disk and its edge starts glowing hot white; he brings it up to deflect the Sentry's beam katana but falls back down on impact and starts scrambling back. Suddenly a blue Light Disc streaks overhead and derezzes the program; he looks over his shoulder and sees Tron fending off several Sentries with one disk while waiting for the other to come back.

He's losing ground.

"No." Sam scrambles to his feet and runs to the discarded baton. As soon as the wheels hit the ground Sam kicks it into gear and races back to Tron.

The nearest Sentry - still yards away - sees him and flings his disk; Sam deflects it and then swerves to avoid another one. It just ends up pushing him further and further away from Tron and with the other Sentries focusing their attention on him it doesn't seem like he'll get close enough to help the security program. It infuriates him.

"Come on, come on..."

He bears down on the unlucky Sentry that ventured away from the others to attack him head-on and slices him in half as he streaks by. Sam glances over his shoulder to see the program collapse into broken data, then looks ahead at the other Sentries, at Tron who's fighting Lock and three programs, at-

Sigma's Light Disc crashes into the lightcycle's front wheel and it flips. Sam curls up as he hits the ground, hears the lightcycle sail over him and shatter on impact nearby.

Sam slowly comes back to himself, disoriented and in agony; he takes quick shallow breaths as he rolls onto his back and presses a hand to his side, tries to overcome the pain as he manages to sit up. He falls forward on his elbows and knees, grimaces as he forces himself to take a deep breath and tries to stand.

The heel of a foot presses on his left shoulder and pushes him back down onto his stomach. Groaning he tries to push himself back up but Sigma won't have any of it; she kicks him in the side and he cries out, pressing his forehead to the ground as he tries to convince himself to get up.

"You don't give up, do you?" Sigma asks. He can hear the hum of her Light Disc and looks around for his; it's too far away, out of arm's reach.

He wonders if this is the end. It's almost too cruel having both father and son die on the Grid, disappearing from their lives on the other side under similar and equally mysterious circumstances. What will Quorra tell Alan? How's she going to break the news to him? He tries to imagine what Alan's reaction will be to being told that the digitizing ray and the Grid are what's responsible for his father's disappearance, and his.

"Get away from him!"

Sam lifts his head up just in time to see Sigma deflect one of Tron's disks. It leaves her open and vulnerable for the second one, which arcs around and hits her in the side right under her arm. Sam stares at the resulting cascade of broken code, too shocked by her sudden deresolution to move until he hears Tron cry out.

His fingers wrap around the discarded beam katana, which flickers from yellow to white, as he forces himself back onto his feet. Almost immediately he's set upon by three Sentries; Sam slams just barely moves his arms up to deflect a blow from a Sentry's staff, then slams himself into the nearest body. He shoves the program to the side, swings his beam katana out to derezz the Sentry, but freezes at the sight a short distance away.

A Sentry knocks him down but Sam doesn't react or feel it over the numbness working its way through him. It takes all of ten seconds for two Sentries to wrestle Tron down onto his knees and force his head up to look at Lock but it feels like a lifetime. The Black Guard says something but Sam doesn't hear the words; he hears instead the Sentry behind him derezzing as he cuts off the program's legs above the knees and scrambles over to his disk. He climbs to his feet and slams the burning white edge into the base of another Sentry's neck, and then turns around to see Lock stab Tron through the chest with his beam katana.

Sam drops down on one knee and slams his hands on the ground.

The resulting shockwave is followed almost immediately by a power surge. The remaining Sentry derezzes while the others standing with Lock are left staggering. Sam slowly rises to his feet, barely notices how badly his limbs tremble as he stumbles his way over, Light Disc in hand. It only takes one touch, though, a tap on the chest or the arm to break them, to shatter them into piles of broken code.

Lock can barely keep to his feet, lists to the side his circuits flicker and dim. He grins weakly but maliciously as Sam approaches, says, "Clu never listened. I wasn't the only one who said Tron could overcome his reprogramming. A defective program had no place in the new system. It would've been better if Clu killed him at the very beginning-"

Sam slams his disk into the Black Guard commander and watches his form collapse into a pile of red-hot shards of code. He then looks around; there are no other Sentries, no other programs to fight off. The way to TRON City is clear and a light runner waits a distance away.

He looks down at Tron's still form, at the bits of code chipping off the ugly red wound just to the bottom right of the dimming four blue circuits on his chest, and falls to his knees.

Sam doesn't know what to do.


	9. 9

**We Are Pilots**

**9**

Sam was done feeling helpless when he was twelve years old, stopped dreaming of the day his father walked through the door and said, "Hey kiddo", like all he did was fall asleep at the arcade office again instead of vanishing into the night five years ago. After that revelation he tried to push everybody away, swearing that he'd never put himself in that situation again.

Until he was running for the elevator at the End of Line Club with Quorra in his arms, unseeing eyes staring up at him.

Until he was standing in the portal and staring across the widening gap at his father, twenty years of want caught in his throat as the white light engulfed him.

Until he was knocked down by Sentries and watched, exhausted and helpless, as a Black Guard stabbed Tron with a beam katana.

Sam swallows hard as he looks at the growing wound, breath hitching as he watches bits of code chip off and fall through the hole in the program's chest. The only thing going for Tron right now is that the deresolution is slow but that won't mean anything if Sam doesn't do_ something _to stop it.

"Light Disc," he says. He sounds like he scraped his throat with sandpaper. "Need your Light Disc."

That would require moving Tron to reach it, but just because he's derezzing slowly doesn't mean he's stable; the other programs all shattered with a light touch on the shoulder or sternum. But if Sam doesn't get to Tron's disk he won't be able to repair the damage and he'll be left with nothing.

He won't let that happen again, not if he can do something about it.

With a deep breath and a pounding heart he gingerly presses his hand on the program's shoulder and almost sighs in relief when he's met with solid resistance. Carefully he pushes Tron onto his side to expose the Light Disc but there's nothing on the dock on his back. The disk is missing.

Panic rises in his throat and clamps down on his lungs as Sam looks around frantically, eyes darting here and there in search of the two disks. If Tron hadn't caught them before Lock subdued him they should at least be nearby; he crawls on his hands and knees, mindful of the gash near his left shoulder, raking fingers through piles of data and throwing aside staffs, beam katanas, and deactivated Sentry disks.

Time seems to pass at a paradoxically agonizingly slow yet lightning fast pace and he starts wondering if the disks just aren't here or if he's searching in the wrong place. Maybe they never made it back to where Tron was and Sam's wasting precious time-there, a faint blue glow several feet to his right. He gets up but his knees buckle and he ends up half crawling, half stumbling to one of the disks. The other is another few feet away, half-buried under cold broken code, and he shakes it free of the bits. Pain shoots down his left arm and he swears as he staggers back to Tron's side.

The words are lost to the wild emptiness of the Outlands and it reminds him of how alone they are out here.

What Sam sees as he reaches Tron paralyzes him. The deresolution is speeding up and the hole on the right side of the program's chest is growing. Sam almost forgets the two disks in hand as he stares, unable to look away from the damage. He can see the ground underneath, lit by the angry glow of the wound's jagged edges; it reaches the edge of the large dimmed circuit and starts chipping away as the circuit goes black.

"No...no, no, no, you can't-_you can't_-"

Sam shoves the two disks together and falls to his knees to lock it onto Tron's back. And just like that the deresolution abruptly stops. The Identity Disc glows brightly for the seconds it takes to sync with its owner and then dims to a sickly blue light.

Sam breathes out slow, afraid that the slightest disturbance could shatter the still form in front of him. He can't take out the disk; what if the deresolution starts again? But he can't access Tron's code from this angle and if he can't repair the damage he can't bring Tron back. Cautiously Sam reaches out, tries to stop the trembling in his hands as he removes the disk, carefully turns Tron onto his back, and sets the disk on his lap. He glances nervously at the still program as he brings up the profile, tries to remember what his father did to Quorra. Terror keeps crowding out the memories and he shuts his eyes tightly, clenches his hands tightly for one second, two seconds, three. He opens his eyes, takes a deep breath, and wades into the disk's data.

He can picture the complexity of Quorra's digital DNA in his mind and the delicate way with which Flynn went about repairing the corruption. Tron's, by comparison, is laughably simple but that's only because his profile is dominated by very old programming, older than the Grid. It's prehistoric by twenty-first century standards and Sam almost does laugh; he can work with this with his eyes closed.

At the same time it reminds him of how _old _Tron really is, and now Sam can't stop thinking about the years his father spent creating and maintaining the Grid with him. He can't stop thinking about the centuries Tron spent as Rinzler. He almost wants to know how Clu reprogrammed the code to create the perfect weapon but the very thought recoils him. Sam shakes his head, shoves the thoughts to the back of his mind, and focuses on the lines of code in front of him.

"You're really that old, huh?" he murmurs as he starts searching for the damage.

Here and there he sees upgrades, someone's handiwork - Flynn's, it has to be - woven in so seamlessly they're almost indistinguishable from the programmer that wrote-from Alan's. The deeper Sam goes, though, the stranger the upgrades and rewrites get. At first glance they have Flynn's signature but there's an eerie efficiency to them that he knows isn't his father's hand or something from the Grid. Only when he hits gaps in the lines and imprecise repairs does he realize that he'd been looking at Clu's work. His hands still for just a second as his eyes skim through the data, easily picking out what was original, what was Flynn's, what was Clu's, and then he starts correcting them, closing the gaps where Tron couldn't self-repair and rewriting Clu's poisonous work. He knows his priority's the damage from the beam katana but he can't stop the flare of rage in his chest that's fueling the drive to eradicate every trace of Clu from Tron's programming.

And then he's staring at it, a massive slow-growing gap that's eating through directives and subroutines and corrupting the rest of the code. It's a wonder Tron hasn't already collapsed into piles of data but Sam flicks his eyes up to make sure that the program's still there. Luckily the corruption hadn't erased entire lines. He's already telling himself how to fill them in and close the gaps, but can't do anything unless he stops the damage from spreading first. Rapidly he commits each damaged line of code to memory before drawing them out and flicking them aside. They scatter like dust in the wind.

Time stretches, an eternity passing before he pulls out the last sliver of corruption and lets it go. The disk is warm on his thighs as he starts writing new lines and sliding them into place, mindful that they're written in a way that the older programming can understand. For the first several lines he doesn't feel the exhaustion but slowly it works its way into his bones-turned-code; he can't stop blinking away the double vision, keeps taking his hand away to rub his eyes against his forearm. His wound throbs, making his left arm tremble as he slides in new code; his side aches something terrible, shocks him with hot needle-like pain when he breathes too sharply, and he shifts uncomfortably as the bruises on his knees deepen but he doesn't stop.

Sam forces himself to take a breather when he botches a line of code for the third time. He shuts his eyes and bows his head, grits his teeth at the pain lancing his side with every deep breath he takes. An insistent and very vocal part of his mind wants him to curl up on the ground and sleep, pretend this is all some fucked up dream and he'll wake up in his bed to Marvin licking his face and Quorra tinkering around in the kitchen. It'll be infinitely better than this nightmarish situation he's in, alone in the Outlands and fighting off pain and fatigue while trying to save Tron.

_Tron. Save Tron._

He opens his eyes and looks at Tron. There's nothing right about the limp body lying on the ground, head turned towards the cyan glow of the city so far away from them. Without thought Sam leans forward and brushes back a lock of tousled hair; his fingers slide down Tron's neck and along his shoulder, feeling cold dead weight instead of a warm living hum. Swallowing hard Sam sits back on his knees and looks down at the glowing disk, scrolls through the lines of code until he finds where he left off, and starts again. This time he writes and inputs with precision, whittling down the gap systematically despite the fog in his mind. Something burns in him, propelling him forward; it's despair, it's hope, it's Sam's need to have Tron by his side.

He whispers, "You shouldn't have done that."

He sounds so harsh and broken. Sam swallows again, wets his lips and flinches at the stinging pain and the iron flush on his tongue.

"I could've handled them. Told you to stop trying to get yourself killed. Just because I'm a User..."

_"The only reason why he survived this long is because he still believes in the Users. He still believes in _you_."_

_"Tron! He fights for the Users!"_

He'll never stop. It's embedded in his programming, the directive that overrides everything else. It's what makes him _Tron_. It's what finally broke Clu's corruptive code and gave Sam and Quorra a chance to escape the Grid. It's what saved Sam's life.

Lock's words echo in his head, harsh with exertion and filled with loathing. A defective program, the Black Guard said. Someone who didn't belong in Clu's system. And Clu forced him in anyway, repurposed someone who wasn't a native of the Grid. Did Clu think he was broken? Was that why he turned Tron into Rinzler, turned all those programs into Sentries and Black Guards? How many of them are still out here in the Outlands or being used in the sectors back at the city? How many fought their reprogramming like Tron did? What happens to the programs who overcame the corruptive code? What place will they have in the post-Clu Grid, or will the other programs ostracize them too?

There's so much he has to do here, so many questions to answer, so many wrongs to make right, and he can't do it alone.

"Can't rebuild the goddamn Grid by myself. I still don't know half of what happened after-after I left. I don't know when and where things started going wrong, don't know where to look to start getting everything to run again. They want me to save the city and I will, I said I will, I can't leave all of this, but I can't do it alone. I can't..."

He stops and lowers his hands, stares at the ground and traces the wild patterns on the dusty ground with his eyes. The words are there, balled up at the back of his throat; he presses his lips together tightly, wondering if there's any merit to saying them when he's the only one who can hear them.

"I can't...do this without you."

_I didn't come this far to lose you, too._

After that he refocuses on the last few lines of code, doesn't let himself think anymore as he writes and watches old programming accept the replacements. Suddenly he's sliding the last line into place and watching the disk glow bright blue-white as old and new programming come together seamlessly, self-repairing the last of the damage. Sam can still see traces of Clu in Tron's code, snippets and single lines here and there, scattered throughout the dense data. They seem to burn, scorching the surrounding code with their virulent presence, but he doesn't think he can focus long enough to sift through ever single bit of code to clean them out. All that really matters is that the entire profile is holding itself together, the code glowing strong and steady like the program it represents.

All Sam needs to do now is collapse the display, lock the disk into place, and let the repairs do their work. Of course he doesn't know if this is how one repairs a program; he's only seen it done once and Quorra's not the typical program, but this is what he knows and he hopes it's enough to bring Tron back.

"Here goes," Sam tells himself as he carefully pushes the program onto his side and locks the disk on its dock.

It lights up and starts syncing with its owner. Sam watches for a breathless second or two, and then slowly moves Tron onto his back. He doesn't look at the hole on the program's chest until the four circuits on Tron's sternum start blinking rapidly. Just like with Quorra's arm new code weaves in, slowly and surely sealing the massive wound. It's a seamless repair but Sam wants to make sure it's permanent and he carefully places his hand on it. The new code doesn't break and he feels himself finally relax as the danger and fear become ghosts of themselves. Then the circuit under his hand abruptly lights up and he yanks his hand back.

Tron doesn't stir but his circuits are all glowing now and Sam can hear a low smooth hum, a kinder sound than the Rinzler-like rumbling he'd grown accustomed to. It's more than enough for him and he laughs, leans forward and presses his forehead to the program's chest while all the stress and tension falls away.

"You're okay," Sam says. "You're okay. Everything's going to be okay."

* * *

><p><em>He leaves the bucket of seawater, sand, and sand crabs near the white waves and wanders back up the beach to his father. It's a sunny, breezy day, with wisps of white clouds streaking the sky and seagulls calling each other as they circle around overhead. The sand is warm under his feet but not hot; when he buries his toes in it's wet and cool. The Pacific is boldly blue and the horizon is dotted with surfers and bobbing buoys.<em>

_Flynn looks up from the notebook he's writing in as Sam sits down next to him. "Tired already?"_

_"No, not yet." He lays his head on his father's lap and watches a surfer catch a wave and ride it to shore. "Just taking a break."_

_Flynn hums. "Uh huh. Just let me know when you want to go home, okay?"_

_"Okay." He has absolutely no intention of going home anytime soon; the days he gets to spend with his father are few and far between so even if he's tired and bored with the local beaches he'll stay out here until sunset._

_While his father continues writing and humming a Bee Gees song Sam watches pelicans dive and people run about in the shallows, jumping waves and splashing each other. He stifles a yawn as best as he can and shifts about on the beach towel to find a more comfortable position; several minutes later Flynn starts running his hand through Sam's tangled hair._

_Sam starts keeping tally of all the surfers who lose their balance and fall off their boards and then narrows his eyes at a strange shape hovering above the horizon line near a whale-watching boat. It looks like the Grid portal and at the same time a massive freighter either heading to or leaving Long Beach._

_"Hey, Dad."_

_"Yeah?"_

_Sam rubs his chapped lips together, asks, "You're not going anywhere, are you?"_

_Flynn's hand stops moving and he moves his notebook out of the way to look down at Sam. "Now what makes you say that?"_

_He walks his fingers across his father's knee, thinking hard about what he heard at home several days ago. "Grandma said that you keep coming home so late that we never see you anymore."_

_"Well that's not true. I'm here. You see me, right?"_

_"Yeah, but...they kept talking like you might disappear."_

_"Oh come on, buddy. You know that's not true. I always come home."_

_Sam sighs and rolls over onto his back, looking up at his father. "Well...then can you come home earlier?"_

_"I try, but running a company's not a whole lotta fun; have to make the world a more awesome place for you while you're growing up. But I'll tell you what - the nights I come home early I'll take you to the old arcade or any arcade around town and we'll play a few games. First round's on me."_

_"Same team, right?"_

_Flynn smiles and nods. "Oh yeah. Same team."_

_"Cool."_

_His father returns to his notebook for all of two seconds, then sets it down on the towel and says, "Hey, wanna go check out those tide pools?"_

_He quickly sits up. "Okay!"_

_Flynn ruffles his hair as they walk across the beach towards the rocky formations jutting out from the shoreline. Sam glances down at his bright blue bucket as they pass by and reminds himself to free the sand crabs before they go home. Foamy seawater ripples over his bare feet and _Sam blinks blearily as the lights and silhouettes of a massive city slowly come into focus. What city is that and why is it sideways? Where's the sun? It all looks familiar but he'd much rather close his eyes and go back to the tide pools full of hermit crabs and sea anemone-wait.

This is the Grid. He's in the Outlands, at the outskirts of TRON City, surrounded by the aftermath of the fight with Sigma, Lock, and the Sentries. He can barely remember the battle; the details are hazy, lost in his sleep-swamped mind. Something happened, though, and it's not him surviving it intact. He looks up at the sky but the sky is dark; the portal's closed and Quorra hasn't reopened it yet. That can't be good. He needs to go back to the city and get a message out to her, reach her in some way to tell her to reactivate the digitizer. That requires getting up, though, and he's not particularly interested in moving himself, not while he's still so sore and tired.

And right now he likes where he's at. Underneath the howling emptiness of the Outlands is a soft, reassuring hum; a hand carefully caresses his hair, soothing him, and Sam sighs, closes his eyes and tries to go back to the beach and his father-

It hits him all at once. Heart thundering in his chest and mind racing, Sam tries to get up but moving his left arm sends fire up and down his arm. His breath hitches from the pain and he waits for it to pass before turning onto his back and looking up at Tron's bemused face. The program lowers his hand and offers him a tentative smile.

For the longest time all Sam does is stare. Tron is _alive_, eyes a warm gray and circuits a living blazing blue. Sam wants to reach up and touch the side of his face, feel the new code hum under his fingertips... Sam flushes at the thought and pushes it aside.

"Hey," he croaks, then hastily clears his throat. "How're you feeling?"

Tron hesitates, searching for words, eyes flicking from him to the city a few miles away. Sam starts feeling like an idiot but what's he supposed to say to someone who was on the brink of death? Or deresolution, in Tron's case?

The program sighs as he looks back down. "Tired."

Despite himself Sam laughs. "Oh man, that's the best answer I heard all day..."

Tron just looks bemused but he nods in agreement anyway, like it's a User thing that he'll never understand. But there's something about the expression about his face as he continues watching Sam, something more than what reads like exasperated fondness. Like he's more than a User to Tron. Maybe he's just grateful that Sam pulled him back from the brink of deresolution.

He wonders if Tron ever saw Flynn do that with another program, repair the damage and close the gaps with new lines of code. Does it even make sense to him, or does he just dismiss it as a User thing? How is he even awake right now? Wouldn't a recompilation that extensive leave a program drained, exhausted? Sam remembers how disoriented Quorra was, how reluctant she was to move about after rebooting, and didn't Flynn have something to help her with that?

"Aren't you tired?" he blurts out.

"You just asked me that."

"Oh. Right." _Idiot._

Feeling a little stupid now Sam tilts his head away. He really should get up. There must be a better place to rest and, in Tron's case, recharge than out here. There's so much he still has to do, like run a system check to understand what the collapse of Clu's system had done to the Grid and find a way to reach Quorra to tell her to open the portal. But he doesn't feel like getting up or doing any of those things right now; he likes it right here, where it's just him and Tron and the Outlands, just fine. Well, besides the pointy end of a rock poking into his knee.

His eyes settle on the Grid's bright lights and towers, tracing the cityscape. _It's beautiful_, he thinks as he realizes that until now he never really did get a chance to just stop and stare. He only had a moment, just a few breathless minutes in the Recognizer, to take in the Grid before his world resumed turning upside down like Alice down the rabbit hole. But now there's nowhere to go - well, nowhere to want to go - and no one to find or hide from; for now he can let the time pass and take in the wonders of the city of his childhood stories.

After a while Sam closes his eyes again and dozes to the sound of Tron's soft purr and the feel of his hand gently stroking his head.

When he wakes up again it's to the Grid and the ever-persistent hum of the program cradling his head. The fog rolls back from his mind as he takes a deep breath and decides that they've been out here long enough. He slowly lifts his head and turns to push himself up; his body protests every movement as he finally gets into a sitting position. The world tilts violently and he ends up leaning against Tron while pressing the heel of his hand to his forehead and waiting for the lightheaded feeling to pass.

"Sam?"

"I'm fine. Just gimme a second."

Another deep breath clears his mind, and Sam notices that his side doesn't hurt as much; he gives his shoulders an experimental roll and grits his teeth at the flash of burning pain in his shoulder. Right, he'll need to remember that the next time he tries something drastic. Hopefully it won't manifest when he goes back to the other side; how's he supposed to explain all of this to Quorra, let alone Alan and anyone at ENCOM with a keen eye? Then again he feels the pain dulling already, notices that he can barely feel the bruises on his knees, and thinks that maybe on the Grid his injuries heal at an accelerated rate. Must be a User perk.

He looks at Tron, who appears to be completely fine besides the veiled weariness in his eyes and the fact that he was derezzing hours ago. Sam hesitates, then leans over and presses his hand over the right side of the program's chest, where the beam katana went through and left behind a growing hole that almost destabilized Tron into deresolution. The repair is flawless, leaving behind no trace of the injury, but he can't stop seeing the chipping red edges and the ground underneath. He glances behind Tron but the bits of broken code are gone, lost to the Outlands. What matters more is the thrum under his hand, the hum that sounds like the platters of a hard disk drive whirring, warm and alive.

Tron shifts uneasily and Sam turns his attention back to him. The program's looking down at his hand, eyebrows furrowed, and he realizes that his hand's still pressed against his chest. Tron's circuits flicker, then glow with a sudden intensity that has Sam pulling his hand back. He stares for a long moment, unable to look away from the eerie, entrancing blue-white glow.

"Do you-do you feel it?" he asks. "Had to rewrite a lot of code to stop the, uh, the deresolution."

By then the circuits have dimmed. Tron presses his fingertips to the circuits on his sternum. His eyes are still downcast, lost in thought.

Sam thinks about what else he found. "If you want I can go through your disk and erase everything Clu did to you. It'll take time but I can take it all away." He watches the way the program's fingers curl over the circuits, adds, "Everyone here deserves a second chance, especially you."

Tron looks up at him and for a moment Sam can't breathe.

"I'll consider it. Thank you."

Sam swallows hard, nods, and looks away. He presses his fingertips together, tries to will the sudden anxiety away. It's nothing, he tells himself. It's nothing.

For a long time they just sit there, watching the city. He doesn't think he'll ever get tired of it.

He's pulled out of his reverie when Tron moves, unfolding himself and slowly standing up. Tron sways, takes a staggering step to the left and Sam's immediately on his feet, holding the program steady and saying, "Easy, easy..."

Tron gives him a grateful smile as Sam slings his arm over his shoulders and nods to the light runner sitting a distance away, still glowing the red-orange of Clu's soldiers.

"Man," Sam says. "I hope Enyo doesn't notice."

"She'll understand."

"Still. I've had enough trouble to last a lifetime. Ready?"

"I'm fine, Sam."

"Uh huh. Just tell me when."

Tron nods and lets him take the lead. They move slowly towards the light runner, stopping every time the program's feet start to drag. He never says anything about it - most likely out of pride - but looks relieved every time Sam stops and lets him gather himself. Sam doesn't mind the breathers, either; he's starting to feel the exhaustion creeping in and Tron's starting to feel like a weight on his shoulders, dragging him back.

"I can just go ahead and bring the light runner back to you," he suggests the fifth time they stop.

Tron looks ready to protest but then shuts his mouth and thinks on it for a second. After a moment he reluctantly nods, closes his eyes, and bows his head. Sam forces himself to get back onto his feet and keep moving towards the waiting vehicle. He makes one stop a third of the way there; under a large pile of broken code Sam spots the sleeve of his father's leather jacket. He kicks aside the shards, uncovering it, and holds it up to look for damage. Afterwards he tucks it under his arm and keeps moving.

As soon as his hand touches the side of the light runner it's circuitry brightens and slowly turns white. He watches the progress for an entranced moment then pulls the hatch up and slides in. He bundles up the jacket and tosses it into the footwell of the shotgun seat and stares at the controls, trying to remember how Tron and Quorra used them. Well, this one releases the hatch and that one rezzes missile launchers onto its hood-right. He's a User. Sam rolls his eyes as he presses his fingertips to the steering handle and brings up its programming.

A second later he has it moving back to where Tron is waiting. He releases the hatch and makes to get out to help the program but Tron's already on his feet and getting in. He gives Sam a look, almost daring him to say something about his condition as the hatch closes above them.

"Fine, fine. Not asking anymore questions," he says, earning a wry smile.

As he steers the light runner towards TRON City he sees the program bend down to pick up the leather jacket and hold it in his lap. Something about the way he looks at it and touches a sleeve makes Sam feel like he's intruding on something and so he focuses on crossing the rough terrain, until the city's skyscrapers loom over them and the Outlands is left far behind.


	10. 10

**We Are Pilots**

**10**

If Users are gods on the Grid then they must be like Greek gods - seemingly invincible but lacking in omniscience and, on more than one occasion, common sense.

Sam can use some omniscience right now. He's all but convinced that he's gone by that particular skyscraper at the corner of that city block three times now. He doesn't know what sector he's in either, or if it's anywhere near Crystal's club. He'd ask Tron for help but the security program is out cold and Sam doesn't have the heart to rouse him out of stasis.

As he peers out at the city he thinks that, under different circumstances, he wouldn't mind weaving through the sectors making up TRON City, mapping it out in his mind for future reference. There's a lot of downtown he sees in its layout - a small blessing from Flynn, seeing as-okay, he definitely recognizes that overpass; it's the fourth time now and the few pedestrians out and about are starting to notice.

"Just my luck," he mutters under his breath as he stops the light runner and sits back. Out of the corner of his eye he sees them gathering on the other side of the street, whispering to themselves and pointing at the conspicuous vehicle.

Without thought he starts sliding down in his seat, trying to pretend that they're not there and they can't see him. If there's one thing he's learned over and over it's that keeping a low profile here is the best thing to do if he wants to stay alive. It'll probably help if he ditched the light runner but that's not really an option right now, especially since he can't carry Tron and keep it inconspicuous. Also he figures it's not a good idea to get on Enyo's bad side by abandoning a very valuable vehicle here. Sam may be a User but he's still fumbling with the ropes and without the portal he's stuck here, surrounded by programs that may or may not be hostile to Users and User-friendly programs.

And where the hell can he go?

_Well, fuck,_ he thinks sourly. Then, _The maps._

How could he have forgotten what he _did_find at his father's safe house? He pries his disk off, wincing when the movement aggravates the bruises on the right side of his body, and pulled up the display. He flicks through the memory files - he makes a note to himself to reorganize them into orderly folders, then laughs to himself when he realizes that's impossible to do with someone like him - and pulls up the most recent map. Then he looks at the time stamp at the bottom right-hand corner of the display and groans.

Right. This map's over a thousand years old. Who knows what Clu did to it during his reign and who knows what else happened to the Grid after the Reintegration. Sam isn't looking forward to remapping the city after this is all over.

He flicks his eyes to his left. More programs gather on the other side of the street, pointing at the light runner and talking to each other. Nobody seems interested in crossing the street to investigate. In fact they seem...nervous.

He tilts his head. They seem to be coming to a conclusion about something because a program is shouldered out of the crowd onto the street. Sam watches, bemused, as the program looks nervously over his shoulder at the others while inching closer to the light runner. Now a little curious himself Sam locks his disk back onto its dock, gives Tron a sideways glance, and releases the hatch.

As one the programs on the opposite sidewalk take several steps back while the lone program on the street flinches. Sam hops out of the vehicle and almost falls over when his knees wobble on impact. With a grimace he slowly straightens his back, looks around the block, and then steps forward.

"Uh...can I help?"

The program - blue circuits, like Tron - visibly swallows. There's a curving blackened scar from his left temple down to his jaw like someone tried to slice his face off. It could be the reason for his skittish behavior; he flinches again, arm up to shield himself, when Sam raises his hands in a placating manner.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm not gonna hurt you," Sam says, keeping his voice low. "What's your name?"

"Why?"

Well that's unexpected. "Just want to know why you're all...over there, watching us. Me. Watching me."

The program gives him a funny look. "You have a light runner."

"Well technically it's not mine-"

"There was...the portal." The program points eastward and Sam follows the direction to the star-less sky. "A User came here, and left us again. You must know what the User did here; only the light runner can cross the Outlands to the Sea-"

"Wait, hold on."

Sam rubs his forehead as he processes the words. So all those programs massed on the other sidewalk are staring at him because they think he knows what this User - himself - was doing here and they want to know why he left without doing anything for them. He can't tell if they're friendly or hostile - he's leaning towards hostile, personally, but that's only because he's had to fight through a lot of programs to get to and from the safe house - so he's not sure what answer he can give without being alienated or, worse, attacked.

This is complicated.

"Look, uh, the portal...closed, before the User could get there. So he's stuck here...somewhere." Sam gestures around and then points at the ground. "He's still here, and he, uh, he's working on it. Working on fixing the Grid. Just give him time, he's new to all this."

The program's bright blue eyes widen. "Are you sure?"

Sam smiles weakly and shrugs. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Quite suddenly the program's face lights up and he grabs Sam by the shoulders, shakes him once, and whirls around to the others. "The User's still here, and he's going to fix everything!"

Like a ripple the mood changes as every word comes out of the program's mouth into the tense air. The others relax and some give the light runner a more appreciative look. A few nod to Sam in acknowledgement as they leave the crowd. Sam stays rooted to the spot, not quite what just happened in the past thirty seconds, and then remembers what it was he meant to do.

"Hey, wait!" he calls out to the program. "Do you-do you know what sector this is?"

"You don't know?" The program turns back around to look at him in confusion. "What sector are you from?"

"Uh...do you know Enyo?"

"Enyo?" Something flickers through the program's eyes and he quickly steps away from Sam. "You should get out of here. This is one of Octane's sectors. If he knew-look, Rho Sector is 45.2138-"

"_Wait_." Sam grabs his disk and pulls up the old map. "I didn't see a Rho Sector-"

"Why are you carrying around an obsolete map?" the program asks. "That hasn't been the layout of the Grid for-"

"Over a thousand years, I know. I just found it and it looks nothing like what I know about this place. Just show me where Enyo's sector is now and I'll go."

The program frowns deeply as he studies first the map and then Sam. His eyes keep flicking between the two, leaving Sam feeling uneasy. Did he ask the wrong questions? Did he give himself away? The light runner is conspicuous enough but if the programs here know _he's _the User...and Octane. Why is Octane everywhere?

He starts out of his reverie when the program takes a large step back and gives him a suspicious look. "Why are you wearing Disc Warrior armor? The Game Grid's been closed for twenty-five point two cycles-"

_What the hell? _"Yeah, so?"

The program glances at the light runner and Sam follows his line of sight, can barely make out Tron's profile from the reflection on the light runner's hatch. He feels a frown tugging at the corners of his mouth; should Tron be out that long? Was the recompilation more damaging than expected? What if he doesn't wake up? Then what? Theoretically he can upload the original programming code and replace the damage but would Alan still have it? Wouldn't he be suspicious of Sam's sudden interest in the old first-of-its-kind firewall program-

"You're asking all the wrong questions." The program looks at Tron again and Sam slides carefully to the program's right, blocking the view. "Who are you?"

He can just leave, find his own way back to Enyo and Crystal and the relative safety of their neutral sector. Or he can continue floundering about in a place where he's still very much a stranger. He's not Kevin Flynn, after all; he didn't build this city. He wavers for a bit, then sighs and says, "Just show me where her sector is."

And just like that the friendly and somewhat anxious demeanor disappears. The still nameless program coldly locates the markers on the map defining the borders of the new sectors, traces the quickest route from this sector to Enyo's, and then leaves without another word, disappearing around the corner of a particularly ominous abandoned structure. Sam sighs again as he looks down at the faint cyan lines on the map, and turns back to the light runner.

Tron's eyes are open and watching him get back into the light runner, following his movements without lifting his head. Sam stares at the steering handle while the hatch closes over them, fighting the urge to punch it. Instead he curls his hands tightly, feeling fingernails dig into the skintight fabric.

"It won't be easy," the security program says quietly.

Sam leans back in his seat. He stares through the glass at the sky and the glow of the lit towers around them. _Octane. This is _one_ of his sectors? How many does this guy have? Shit. _"Yeah."

He hears movement, the quiet slide and shift of simulated material, then almost jumps when a warm hand curves around his shoulder. He looks at Tron and is momentarily speechless in the face of the trust and confidence in the program's eyes.

"Just give us time," he says, squeezes his shoulder once, and then sits back. His eyes flutter and close while his circuits dim until only the ones on his sternum remain glowing.

Swallowing hard against a dry mouth Sam forcibly pries his attention away from Tron and starts up the light runner.

* * *

><p>"...like dirt bikes. If the light runner can modify itself for the Outlands why can't lightcycles?"<p>

Tron just nods; it's been either that or a very short answer for the past forty or so minutes. He doesn't seem to mind when Sam lets his mouth run off with the few ideas bubbling in his head for the Grid but when he shuts his eyes and tilts his head away Sam stops talking and focuses on driving.

Sam makes a mental note to ask Crystal or Enyo about recompilation when he sees them.

Tron's been awake for the last five minutes, though, sitting up in his seat and watching everything with a keen eye. Sam breaks off from his rambling about dirt bikes and the old Ducati to ask, "Feeling better?"

Tron shrugs, says, "I've had worse."

Sam doesn't have anything to say to that.

After a minute or two Tron tells him to take a right at the next intersection. Three buildings down there is a welcome sight - Crystal's club. From where they are Sam can hear the MP3s' heavy rhythmic beat; it vibrates through the light runner and inside him, like he's standing too close to the speakers at a particularly rowdy concert.

Right before he releases the light runner's hatch he gives Tron a critical look. He opens his mouth but the program beats him to the punch, says, "I can walk on my own."

Sam shakes his head, trying to suppress a smile. "Suit yourself."

In constantly worrying about Tron's state of being Sam forgot how incredibly sore and tired he was himself; he sways as he gets out of the light runner and half-stumbles after Tron up onto the sidewalk. He looks over his shoulder at the light runner's white circuits and mutters, "I hope she doesn't notice."

Nobody notices them, although Sam can't tell if it's the near darkness, the vertigo-inducing strobe lights, the beat the MP3s are spinning out, or the neon cocktails that seem to float in the air like fireflies. He tries to stay ahead of Tron and push aside the programs blocking their curving route around the back of the crowd but Tron keeps stepping out in front of him, weaving through the bodies and forging a path for him to follow. He's still shielding Sam, seems to be doing it more on purpose and less because he's _meant _to, and it leaves Sam feeling strange, like his stomach's tied up in knots. At the same time he can't help feeling grateful; while the security program's every stride appears to be stronger and surer his are faltering, and Sam's starting to feel the gravity's pull on his limbs.

Crystal, as expected, is behind the counter, pouring boldly colored energy from an assortment of carafes on the glowing panels into two tall slim glasses. She does it so effortlessly and the sight of the colors splashing and swirling into a chemical blue is so entrancing that Sam forgets where he is and trips over someone's foot. Tron's even faster, grabbing him by the arm and holding him up until he regains his balance. Embarrassed, Sam quickly tugs his arm back and makes a beeline for the nearest empty barstool. A few programs turn their heads to study the newest arrival but when Tron joins him a second later they shift their attention elsewhere. Two of them even look _disappointed _although Sam doesn't know what's so fascinating about him. Besides being a User, that is. Maybe if he isn't so tired their expressions'll make more sense.

The music starts grinding down on the last of his sanity and he plants the side of his face on the cool countertop, shuts his eyes and starts thinking about his bed back home on the other side of the Grid. When he opens his eyes again Tron has his elbows propped on the bar, face buried in his hands. Sam stares at the circuits on the back of his fingers and thumb until a white-lit program moves out of the corner of his eye. Ever so slowly he lifts his head and looks up at Crystal.

She sets the two glasses down on the counter in front of them and then gives them an appraising look. "You look like the Outlands chewed you up and spit you back out."

"Something like that," Sam says roughly, and then clears his throat. He pokes at the cocktail in front of him; Tron is already halfway done with his and is looking far more alert than in the past few hours.

"Drink it," Crystal says, pushing the glass into the web between his thumb and index finger. "It won't have the same effect on you as it does for us but it should help."

Behind him the MP3s change tracks, replacing the rapid beats with a slower tempo. It's the cue for programs to start drifting to the bar to chat or order drinks. Crystal hesitates, her eyes full of questions, but someone calls her name.

"Holler if you need me," she says, pats Sam's hand, and moves away.

Sam finally sits all the way up, grimacing when his back cracks. He pinches his nose bridge and almost knocks the glass over when his hand falls heavily on the countertop. He swirls the contents of the glass with his other hand for a moment, lifts it to his nose and sniffs, then tips the cocktail into his mouth. Unlike other times this one is highly charged, prickling and electric as it coats his tongue and slides down his throat. The world abruptly and sharply focuses and he's suddenly hyperaware of his surroundings, like the music the MP3s are spinning out, the chatter of the programs around him, the backlit panels behind the bar illuminating the neon colors in rows and rows of glass carafes. Another sip and the pleasant warmth floods his body, numbing the aches and bruises, and reaching all the way down to his fingertips and toes. His circuits' glow intensifies with another swallow.

"Whoa." He holds up the glass, tilting the remaining blue liquid this way and that. It doesn't look different from the cocktails other programs in the bar area are holding but none of them look as buzzed and bright as he feels. He holds his free arm out and studies the white lines. "Is it supposed to do that?'

He looks at Tron, who's giving him a strange and fond smile. Quite suddenly he can't breathe, can't move, can't think, is paralyzed by the bluish-gray eyes, the aching familiarity of his face, the glowing blue circuits on his body. Just as abruptly the moment passes and the dull roar of the club becomes pronounced again. Flushing hot Sam looks away and stares down at the backlit counter, fighting the urge to press his heart back into his chest.

He ends up eavesdropping on a group of programs standing to his left.

"...saw the whole thing. Sen wouldn't lie, not with the rumors going around."

"Except they're not rumors anymore. He's the real deal."

One of the programs snorts derisively. "'Real deal'? What's he done so far? With Pollux ousted that sector's gone dead; is that what we want?"

"There had to be a reason why he did that. And Pollux is nothing like Octane or Shaddox-"

"Enyo knew the Creator. She's putting her disk behind the new one. I think that says enough, don't you?"

"She's also harboring Clu's little pet. What can you say to that?"

Anger flares up in his chest like fire as Sam sits up and turns to his left. Of the cluster of programs standing there the rail thin bald blue-lit program notices him first and fumbles with his green cocktail. One by one the others turn around and, to Sam's confusion, they start backing away. Then Crystal breezes by on the other side of the bar and loudly says, "I'll thank you not to derezz my bar, Sam Flynn."

_What are you talking abou-what the hell?_

He lifts his arm off the counter but the damage is already done; a deep crack runs down a third of a darkened panel and bits of code are chipping off. He quickly pulls up the code and repairs the damage, minimizes the display while the counter repairs itself and the panel flicks back on. He looks up at the group of terrified programs, smirks and salutes them with his glass, and watches them scatter. With a shrug he twists around to face the bar and tips the contents into his mouth.

"So what other User tricks are you hiding up your sleeve?"

Perched on the barstool next to his is Enyo. Where the hell did she come from?

"It's impressive but I don't recommend doing it again. We want a Creator who_ creates_, not destroys." She pats him on the arm sympathetically while he coughs the energy out of his lungs. "So, did you find what you were looking for?"

Tron leans over to see who Sam's talking to, pressing up against his shoulder. The unexpected contact is electric, a hot-cold shiver spreading through his body while catapulting his heart up his throat. His circuits glow with sudden intensity and Sam curls his fingers around his glass tightly, desperately willing them to dim down. He drops his gaze to the panel, unable to meet Enyo's eyes or consider what Tron must think of the vivid reaction.

"Not exactly," he says, pretending very hard that his voice didn't just crack. He thinks about the presence next to him, thinks about his father's tired voice looping in his head, thinks about Quorra on the other side. Quietly he adds, "Found what I needed, though."

"Bet you did," she says. "Nice light runner, by the way. Quite an upgrade from the one I lent you."

He stiffens. "Yeah, uh, about that-"

She raises her hand, stopping him. "Say no more. What's important is that we now know that many of Clu's followers are still out there." She then nods to Tron. "And that both of you survived."

"How do you-"

"I have my sources," she says smugly. "I was created to stay up-to-date on the Grid's status, which reminds me - the portal's closed. What are you going to do?"

Sam groans and covers his face. He'd forgotten about the portal. At the very serious look on Enyo's face he quickly explains. "Q's on the other side and we agreed on when to open it if it closed before I came back. So I'm not stuck here forever. But since I _am _done I just need to...somehow get a message out and have her open it-"

"An I/O tower," Tron suddenly says. "That's how Clu sent the message that brought you to the Grid. It's gone now."

Sam always did wonder how Clu sent Alan that page, but, "Tower?"

Enyo nods. "Tower. I/O towers were religious places where we went to communicate with our Users. It used to be that we could only receive communications but you're a User, you can repurpose it to send a message to the other side. And not all of the towers were destroyed; there's one still standing two sectors over.'

She slides off the barstool and leans on the counter, looks at him expectantly. "We can go now."

His first instinct is to glance to his right; there's a strange expression on Tron's face but it disappears under the more familiar serenity and stoicism as he meets Sam's gaze. Sam looks back at Enyo and is now unsure what to make of the expression on _her_face. Still there's that expectation in her brown eyes. They're both waiting for him to make the decision.

The thing is, Sam's now realizing, he's not quite ready to leave the Grid. The closed portal still ticks in his mind, reminding him constantly of the permanent damage it did to his life and the lives of so many others; he knows how important it is to get the portal open _now_, but the urgency's taken a backseat to this unsettled feeling, this notion that something hasn't been resolved and he can't leave until it is.

He can have Quorra open the portal and still spend several hours here before leaving, can't he? He keeps forgetting that time on the Grid is faster than time on the other side. This, he realizes with no small amount of happiness, means he can send her the message and then take a much-needed nap without losing any time at all.

"Yeah, why not," he says, rubbing his thumb along the length of the slender glass. "Sounds easy enough-"

"You're in no condition to go back out there," Tron points out. Trust him to pick up on that immediately. "The situation in the city hasn't changed and you need the rest-"

"Just give me a couple of these and the tower's location," Sam interrupts, holding up his glass and swirling around the last splash of energy. And really, it's not that different from all those late nights he spent during his high school and CalTech years. Okay, so there's a bit of a difference between pouring over handwritten notes and blocks of text, and fighting for his life after an hours-long journey to a remote house in the digital wilderness, but the idea is still the same.

At the disapproving look on Tron's face he rolls his eyes and bumps the program's shoulder, adds, "I'll be fine. I can write shortcuts, remember? Shouldn't be too hard."

Is he just imagining things or did Tron's circuits just get brighter? They flash bluish-white before stuttering back to a steady blue glow and nobody else seems to notice. Tron in fact is just shaking his head and saying something under his breath.  
>"What?"<p>

Tron smiles. "Sometimes you remind me of Flynn."

Sam doesn't know what to say to that. Instead he looks down at the cocktail in his hand, then empties the glass into his mouth and studies the way the light refracts off the rim of it. Tron slides away to talk to Crystal, leaving Sam with Enyo.

She's leering at him.

"What?"

"Nothing," Enyo says, but her smile suggests otherwise.

Sam does not trust that program.

* * *

><p>The shortcut Sam writes is big enough for three lightcycles and they end up racing each other from one end to the other, zipping along at impossible speeds and trailing rippling light ribbons in white, blue, and yellow. Sam's not sure how Tron does it but he finishes a half-length in front and doesn't try to hide a victorious smile as they dismount and the lightcycles collapse into batons.<p>

As they climb up the translucent rungs to a narrow alleyway behind the I/O tower Enyo told them about Sam says, "Told you it wasn't going to be a problem."

Tron pauses halfway up the next run to give him a look. Sam decides it's probably not a good time to make a smart remark about the sudden bout of vertigo when he looks down. It's not like he measured the height of the shortcut when he wrote it.

The abandoned I/O tower is a massive construct, distinct compared to the other towers and skyscrapers in the area. Sam stares up at the curving walls while Enyo walks ahead to the double doors to see if they can get inside. Tron lingers behind, a thoughtful look gracing his face as he tilts his chin up.

Sam sidles alongside him and asks, "How does this work again?"

"We come here when our Users summon us-"

"How do you know that?"

Tron shrugs. He sounds distant when he says, "You feel it. Like something deep inside, calling you to the nearest tower..."

Sam doubts it's going to get more descriptive than that. "What happens next?"

"Each tower is protected by a Tower Guardian. You must ask their permission to go inside to communicate with your User. When the MCP took over the Guardians were forbidden to let any program in; Yori and I convinced Dumont to let me communicate with Alan-1 in order to learn how to stop the MCP, and he almost lost his life for it."

"Dumont, huh?" The Dumont Sam knows is the modified shipping container he'd lived in for several years next to the river. "Did Dad port him in here, too?"

"He did. I don't know where he is now, though." Tron sighs and softly says, "Clu probably had him and the other Guardians derezzed. Of course Flynn was the only User who could communicate with us, but the Guardians could just as easily start an uprising as Zuse once did. They're all gone now."

He looks so wistful and lost, and Sam wishes he kept his mouth shut. He touches the program's arm, getting Tron to look at him.

"Hey, I'm sorry about what happened."

Tron smiles and shakes his head. "There's nothing to apologize for."

He looks like he's about to say something else but Enyo interrupts, calling across the plaza for them.

"Looks like you'll have to break us in," she says as they approach. She has that look again, one almost identical to the look the Sirens wear when they know something and Sam doesn't. He's of the belief that she spends way too much time around Crystal.

While Tron stands guard Sam presses the palm of his hand on the wall and pulls up the code. Enyo watches with rapt fascination as he writes in a command line and then quickly steps back when the wall starts humming. A second later the doors slide apart, releasing a blast of cold stale air. Sam takes a cautious step inside and as soon as his foot hits the floor the tower lights up.

"Whoa."

He doesn't know who said it. The lobby of the I/O tower is so massive it verges on the sublime; the sheer walls and the high ceiling remind him of the exterior of the Walt Disney Concert Hall, only with tastefully placed cyan circuitry instead of a reflective surface and on a much grander. Their footsteps echo in the vast emptiness as they walk across the floor to another large sliding door.

"Impressive, isn't it?" Enyo asks. Her voice bounces off the seemingly random curves, echoing and vibrating in the air.

"Yeah, it is," Sam says as he looks up again at the ceiling.

It takes seconds for Sam to open the next door. Cold sterile air blasts in his face as the door slides open; inside are low circular stairs rising up to a platform with a control panel. Behind it is a narrow walkway crossing a massive chasm to a small entryway on the other side. The architecture is still just as grand, with steep curving walls that reach skyward. The only difference is the transparent ceiling giving them a clear view of the cloudy dark sky.

Enyo bounds ahead, going up the steps two at a time. Sam glances at Tron, looking for some kind of explanation.

"This is where the Guardian monitors our communication with our Users. He's required to activate the tower and open the link between us, but I think you can manage."

Sam thinks back to the stories his father told him but he draws a blank. All he remembers is Flynn doing something with a damaged Recognizer. "Right."

Sam is the last of the three to reach the top of the stairs; his lungs burn and his legs wobble from the exertion, but when Tron gives him a concerned look he waves it off with a grin and hops over into the circle of controls and interfaces to take a closer look. He pretends that he didn't almost make it and he also pretends that he didn't almost kick Enyo in the head.

The control panel gives him no clue how to activate the tower until he remembers that he doesn't need it to make the tower work. He presses his fingertips to a space between buttons and darkened screens and brings up an incredibly complicated code.

"Let's see..." he says, more to himself than the others.

Clu was able to reprogram one of these towers to page Alan but he's definitely not the person Sam wants to call up this late at night. He doesn't even know if the computer's still hooked up to the telephone line. He briefly considers sending a text to Quorra's phone but the coding involved will take much too long to write, plus the system doesn't even have the right hardware for it. Making a mental note to start upgrading the Grid for the twenty-first century once this is all over he studies the display and decides to try coding a brief message to send to the touch screen interface.

"First thing I'm doing when I come back," he says as he activates the tower, feeling a small thrill when the control panel lights up under his touch, "is reprogramming one of these so you can text me or Q if something comes up."

"Text?" Enyo asks.

Sam glances up, code glowing under his fingertips. "You can send a message to my phone. Need specific hardware for that, though. Don't want you accidentally paging Alan instead."

She looks even more confused than the first time. He can go into exponentially greater detail about the wonders of twenty-first century technology but there's something crucial that he has to do first. And twenty-first century technology can't compare with the tower whirring and lighting up as he continues modifying the code to enable two-way communication. There's a flash above his head and Sam looks up to see a thin beam of light streaking into the sky.

He looks down at the control panel and lifts his hands, watching the code display disappear. "Okay, so basically I walk over there-" he points at the bridge "-and inside that room there's...what happens, exactly?"

"There's a beam of light," Tron says. "It will read your disk, confirm it's the correct one, and imprints any information or directive from your User on it. With you it should be the reverse. Do you need help?"

Sam is calculating whether or not he can jump over the control panel to the outside without falling on his face or breaking something. Coding isn't exactly easy, especially on the Grid, and the buzz from the energy Sam downed back at the club is starting to fade. A different kind of buzzing is settling in and Sam resists rubbing his eyes, takes a deep breath to get his bearing and sharpen his mind.

"I'm fine," he says. "Just give me a second."

Steeling himself he hoists himself up and over but the landing isn't graceful; he bangs his hipbone against the side and his leg almost gives out under him. He swears, pressing his hand against it, and makes a point of avoiding Tron's frown and Enyo's raised eyebrow as he hobbles towards the bridge.

"That went well," he mutters and peers over the ledge. Vertigo hits again and he catches himself before he sways forward. Swallowing hard he keeps his eyes on the narrow bridge and inches his way across.

As he crosses to the inner sanctum he hears Tron's voice, a murmur that carries across the deep drop and echoes around him.

"All that is visible must grow beyond itself, and extend into the realm of the invisible."

* * *

><p>The inner sanctum is incredibly small, a tight space where the only way is up. Sam studies the tendrils of circuits crawling up the walls until the light above almost blinds him, and then looks at the small round platform in the middle of the room. He takes his disk off his back and turns it over in his hands as he goes over what Tron told him about IO towers. He slowly steps up onto the platform and immediately shields his eyes when a spotlight shines down on him. Deja vu rushes through him, memories carrying him back to the moment a Recognizer threw a beam of light on him and closed in, dropping out the ground around him until he was trapped on a lone pillar.

This time there's only light and no threat of being hauled off to the Games. Sam breathes deep and then holds his disk up over his head. Something tugs on it and he slowly releases the Light Disc, watches it rise up in the light and disappear.

"What, that's it?"

Sam feels a bit cheated.

How long is it supposed to take? Where does his disk even go? Will he get it back or will it stay up there somewhere until Quorra responds, either by somehow sending back a message or opening the portal?

He rubs his hip as he looks skyward, squinting against the light. Seeing nothing he sighs and sits down, pressing his hand against the buzzing in his head. He feels himself sway to the side and catches himself from toppling over. He shakes his head to wake himself back up, then yawns and hears his jaw crack.

"Fuck." He looks up while rubbing it but doesn't see anything. "How long is this supposed to take?"

As if on cue the light suddenly intensifies and he quickly stands up. He makes out the shape of his disk as it slowly descends - too slowly for his taste.

"Oh come on," he says and rises up on the balls of his feet to grab it.

As soon as his fingers wrap around the disk the light dims. He takes a step back and his foot lands on air; he ends up on the floor, curling onto his side and pressing his hand to the back of his head. Everything rings loudly as he swears under his breath and rolls onto his hands and knees to push himself up. He limps over to his disk and locks it into place on his back, then walks out of the room, hand sliding along the wall for support and causing the pencil-thin circuits to pulse.

Tron and Enyo are deep in conversation when he comes out of the inner sanctum and carefully, very carefully, crosses back over the bridge. He doesn't look down but the lightheaded sensation returns anyway and the ground rocks under his feet as soon as he reaches the other side. He ends up leaning against the control panel, feels his knees buckle as exhaustion clouds his mind. Someone is calling out his name as he slides down to the floor and presses his forehead against the cool panels. He closes his eyes and feels himself unwind.

He regains consciousness for a few seconds, feels himself being lifted up and carried somewhere while voices talk around him. He hates being considered helpless - he's not seven years old and listening to his grandparents discuss the situation with his missing father the next room over while buried under the blankets with only his Tron action figure for company - but he can't exactly move. He blinks and catches sight of a blurry blue "T" centimeters away from him.

"Put me down, I can walk," he tries to say but a finger presses against his mouth and someone hushes him.

Sleep clouds his mind and _at the end of the tunnel is a bright light. The Ducati roars as he swerves around the other cars, the sound vibrating all around him. Suddenly there's no asphalt underneath, no ground, no cars, no tunnel, just the lights of downtown L.A._

_He follows the graceful lines of traffic on the 405 and wonders at the circuits on the skyscrapers. Up ahead he can see the giant oval of Hollywood Park, lightcycles circling the racetrack, and the Solar Sailers coming in and out of LAX. He sits back on the rumbling Ducati and watches, feels the corners of his mouth tug upwards in a smile._

_It's incredible._

_The city dissolves and in the darkness he _hears footsteps approach. Still sluggish and lost in a sleepy haze he listens and waits; they come to a stop somewhere in front of him.

"Still out?" It's Enyo.

"Yes." Tron sighs. "I told him it was a bad idea coming here so soon after what happened in the Outlands."

Sam can hear her smile in her words. "Users don't know their limits; they're always trying, no matter how right or wrong they are. Julia-59 was constantly rewriting me, trying to make me better, all the way up until Flynn approached me about the new system he was building with you."

"I was wondering why you said 'Users'."

"I'm just that old," Enyo says, "and insignificant enough to fly under Clu's radar. I'm the only one left of the group he brought over from the old servers."

"You're..." Tron hesitates, searching for words. "You're very strange. You're not like the others at all."

"I could say the same of you but that makes sense seeing as we're both from elsewhere."

Sam's mind slowly orients itself as he becomes more awake. He's curled up on the floor, against the wall with his disk pressing into his lower back. He hears Tron's quiet hum, so different from the loud broken whir when he first came back to the Grid, and feels a hand gently caress the side of his head. A chill and a shiver runs up his spine while heat unfurls in his chest; Sam fights the urge to curl around the feeling and give himself away.

An uneasy silence hangs in the air and then something squeaks, like Enyo twisting the ball or heel of her foot against the floor.

"He's more than a User to you, isn't he?" she suddenly asks. "More than just the Son of Flynn?"

His heart pounds louder and louder the longer Tron stays silent and Sam thinks he's going to be sick. He doesn't think he can breathe. The hand resting on his head suddenly weighs several tons and it just makes him want to run.

"You don't have to say anything," Enyo says, then abruptly changes topics. "Rho Sector isn't the easiest to patrol. We lost so many just to establish its neutrality, and now that he's here it's going to get worse. Not everyone wants him, not everyone thinks they need him but we know better. You have to be careful."

"You did just fine the last twenty-five point two-"

"Until _someone _upset the status quo, after upsetting the status quo," Enyo says lightly. "We'll need your help to just stay one step ahead of the others."

"I can do that."

"Never doubted you, but if you need help ask Crystal's sisters. In the meantime..." Sam hears someone shift about. "The light runner's outside. Some programs decided to try taking it off my hands. I hope nobody misses them. I certainly won't."

Tron huffs a laugh. "And what are you going to do?"

"I'm staying here until something happens. I'm no Guardian but I think I can tell when someone's trying to reach our mighty User. If the portal opens, just listen for the rioting in the streets." In a softer voice she adds, "You know, I don't think he'll say no."

What is she talking about? Sam hears Tron shift uneasily as Enyo takes a step back.

"Why?" Tron finally asks.

"Why not?" she says, which seems to be her attitude towards a lot of things. "If you forgave yourself for everything that happened why are you still holding back?"

"I..."

There's a knowing shush, accompanied by the echo of Enyo's footsteps that eventually fade. Sam holds himself absolutely still, hoping it still looks like he's asleep. The exchange between the two programs whirl in his mind like a hurricane, words said and unspoken drowning out whatever thoughts he had about Quorra and the portal.

_"He's more than a User to you, isn't he? More than just the Son of Flynn?"_

It's true, in a sense. Unlike the others Tron never treated him like the User they know he is, like the savior everybody else hopes he can be. He's always done his best to protect Sam, but isn't that just how he's written? Beyond that he never...asked for anything, never expected anything of him, never put that kind of pressure and expectation on him. Sam never noticed but in hindsight it's something he appreciates. Who didn't look at him expectantly, talked to him like he's just wasting his potential? All Tron ever did was help him, and it means so much more than he thought possible.

Somewhere above his head Tron says his name softly, like it's something to treasure, and he can't help the shuddering breath because nobody's ever done that before. Abruptly the hand lifts away from his head and Sam takes another breath, steels himself, and opens his eyes.

They're in the lobby of the I/O tower. He shuts his eyes against the too bright light.

"Well, crap." He feels like it, too.

Slowly he rolls onto his back and blinks again. There are glass panels on the ceiling like skylights and he can see the glowing beam of light reaching from the inner sanctum of the tower into the sky. He tilts his head back and looks at Tron, who's sitting against the wall and looking down at the circuits on the back of his right hand. Sam studies the pensive look in his face and freezes when the program tilts his head down to meet Sam's gaze. His eyes are an incredible and magnetic blue-gray.

He licks his upper lip and then says, "So, uh, I'm guessing Q hasn't opened the portal yet." He's not sure why he's whispering.

The seconds tick by before Tron finally answers. "No. You haven't been asleep long. We should go back. Enyo will keep watch, you need rest, and I..." He raises his hand and Sam holds his breath, heart pounding erratically. Tron hesitates, presses his fingertips together, and then lowers it. He looks elsewhere, says, "I need to think things out."

Sam slowly lets out the breath he's been holding and sits up. "Yeah, good idea."

They're no more than a few feet apart as they walk across the lobby to the doors and the light runner that's waiting for them on the plaza rather than on the street, but they might as well be on opposite sides of the bridge inside the tower. Tron has withdrawn into himself, shoulders slumping forward and head tilted down in a way reminiscent of Rinzler. Sam is a half-step behind, tired and aching and mind awhirl with what he overheard-

Not just what he overheard. Everything Enyo said and didn't say just put words to the shift in his head, something that's been in motion since that conversation outside the safe house. There's suddenly a way to look at the unavoidable storm and the program at the eye of the hurricane, and it's made real his inexplicable want and need to be near Tron, to reach out and make him smile, to watch his circuits like up like fireworks.

It's something Sam never expected to face when he came here. It wasn't something he was looking for.

It's terrifying.


	11. 11

**Author's Note:** Just so you know I listened to nothing but Usher's "DJ Got Us Falling In Love" and Pitbull's "Give Me Everything (Tonight)" for two days straight while writing this chapter.

**We Are Pilots**

**11**

The strangest thing about the long minutes back to Enyo's sector is the silence. He's seen enough movies, has slogged his way through too many books in high school, listened to too many songs, and thought, _Well, this is gonna be awkward._ Too much tension, too many unsaid things, too many forces are pushing them along into a head-on collision. Isn't this the scene where he decides to go back home by himself, lost in thought and struggling with conflicting emotions? Does he really want to be trapped in an enclosed space with the object of his-with the _person _whose presence now burns and prickles his skin?

But here they are, crossing an empty overpass and putting distance between them and their one encounter with hostile programs on the route back to Rho Sector, and even though they haven't said a single word or even really looked at each other Sam feels okay. There are too many thoughts in his head right now but it's the calm before the storm and he'll take it, run with it as far as he can before it hits him.

He does glance sideways once, a quick flick to his left. Tron is staring straight ahead, face a carefully organized blank page, and Sam sighs, tilts his head towards the window, and closes his eyes.

When he wakes up he blinks blearily through the thick glass of the hatch at the programs on the sidewalk, watches them give a curious glance at the line of light extending from the I/O tower into the clouds. Some have even stopped to point at it and talk with their companions.

How long has it been since they last saw an active tower?

When Sam wakes up again it's too the more familiar sight of the club up the street. Blinking away the fog of sleep he slowly lifts his head and looks up. There's no star to the east; Quorra hasn't opened the portal yet.

Three glitzy programs walk through the unremarkable entrance to Crystal's club and the MP3s' booming beat vibrates in his head. There's definitely a big crowd in there tonight-this hour-this _millicycle_, and Sam thinks about holing away in the light runner's cockpit instead, away from the noise and the crowd. Or maybe not in the light runner, if the look four programs now walking into the club are giving the vehicle is anything to go by.

"Can we go elsewhere?" he wonders, and almost jumps when Tron replies.

"We have to leave the light runner here. Can you make it?"

He considers saying yes - of course he can, it's no big deal, he's gone from CalTech to Coronado on three hours of sleep and three cans of Red Bull - but he didn't miss the disapproving tone in Tron's voice. He leans back and looks up at the sky again. "Probably not."

With a low hiss the hatch releases and cold sterile air rushes in. Sam hauls himself out of the light runner and follows Tron into the cacophony of music, lights, and bodies. Like before - like always - Tron leads the way but he has his hand at Sam's elbow; it's the lightest touch but it's all Sam can focus on as they weave through the crowd to the bar.

The MP3s are creating and mixing with crowd-pleasing fervor, heads bobbing in sync with the beat and each other. While Sam watches one of them looks up and straight at him, then elbows its companion; the other program turns its cracked helmet to Sam as well, and then they nod as one. Abruptly the beat changes, becomes louder and heavier until it pulses in the air and the spaces between bodies. It drums in his head like a second heartbeat, throbs under his skin and makes loud the presence of the hand on his elbow. It disorients him, makes his circuits pulse hotly while something in his chest both expands and contracts, and Sam thinks distantly that something is really off about the music. The hold on his elbow tightens and he looks at Tron; the program is tense and his circuits are starting to intensify, as are those on the programs around them.

Crystal is handing a program a green cocktail while reading what looks like a data pad. One glance and she's putting the data pad away in some space under the counter and moving towards them. Sam leans heavily against the counter, swallowing hard and trying to bring his heart under control. He closes his eyes against the lights but it only magnifies the beat in his ears and in his head.

"Well," Crystal says loudly, "you look ready to crash."

He nods once and presses his forehead to the cool panel. The music flows hotly through the lines of his circuitry while the drumming in the back of his mind grows louder and louder.

"Sam?" Tron asks. His voice sounds strained.

"I'm fine," he mumbles. "I'm fine. Shit."

Crystal makes a frustrated sound and it sounds like a bullhorn. "I swear...they're experimenting again, and this time they left me out of the equation. It most likely won't suit you, and you're about to go into standby anyway. Take the room at the back; it's soundproof and you need the rest."

Experimenting? He slowly lifts his head and looks over his shoulder at the MP3s, who are clearly enjoying what they've done to him, Tron, and the other programs in the establishment. Not that the other clubbers are complaining; they're all on the dance floor in front of the MP3s' platform, a mass of writhing silhouettes and pulsing light. It's hypnotizing. He can't look away.

"Did you hear me? Sam?"

Crystal touches his arm to get his attention and he flinches, jerks away; the contact ripples violently through his body, leaving him breathless and shell-shocked. It felt _wrong _and it still feels wrong, and he shuts his eyes, shakes his head, tries to shrug it off. He looks up at Crystal, who's as stunned as he feels, hand trembling in mid-air, and then her face hardens and her eyes flash as she turns to the MP3s. He stares at her profile, then loses his breath again when a warm hand rests tentatively on the small of his back, steadying him.

He gives Tron a weak smile, grateful for the small gesture, and catches his breath. "I'm fi-"

"They're just asking to be derezzed," Crystal says, "or at least thrown out. Go on. I'll deal with them."

"I'll wait here for-"

"Mmm, no," Crystal says, cutting Tron off. "With a recompilation like that you need more than just an instant recharge."

When Tron opens his mouth to protest she leans on the counter and looks him in the eye. "Don't pretend you don't. You need yourself to be in top form, more than we need you to be. We were doing fine before you came."

Tron tilts his head down ever so slightly while raising an eyebrow and the expression reminds Sam very strongly of his godfather, especially when the expression's turned on him in the wake of one of the many stupid things he'd done.

"_Mostly _fine, then." The Siren jabs a thumb over her shoulder in the general direction of the backroom. "My bar, my rules. Go. Now."

His hand slides along the edge of the counter as they head for the back. They pass programs sitting on the couches, in booths, and around small tables toward the back of the club; the programs are completely entranced, bodies swaying to the music while their circuits brighten and dim with the rhythm. They seem to be handling its effects better than he is, though that might have something to do with the cocktails they're clutching in their hands. And that they're programs while he's a User.

He thinks about making a crack about getting drunk to cope with the beat when something changes. The music remains the same but the tense atmosphere lets up; the buzzing under his skin and the skittish anxiety fades. He can still feel the press of the Siren's fingers on his arm, though, and the ghost of the touch on his lower back. He can still hear the pounding in his head.

He sways a little too close to the wall at some point and Tron pulls him back with a hand on his upper arm, guides him away from it and towards the sliding door several feet ahead. The drumming in his head becomes deafening.

"Thanks," he says around a thick tongue, and only breathes when Tron lets him go. He briefly touches his arm, feeling the prickle of pressure and the form of the warm hand against it.

The transparent wall keeps out everything but a faint impression of the beat. In here the club scene looks picturesque, almost like an art form. If not for the drowsiness shrouding his mind and the suddenly difficulty keeping his eyes open he can sit on the couch and watch for hours on end. He goes to the couch anyways, sprawls all over it and lays his head back. His eyes track Tron's movements, follows his path to the transparent wall where he stands with his hands behind his back, watching and waiting like always. Against the lights of the club he's a silhouette marked sparsely with blue circuits; Sam traces the glow of his disk, the circuits up on the back of his neck, on his shoulder blades, and right under the disk dock, and down even lower to the circular nodes on his hips.

It takes several slow seconds for him to realize that, for all intents and purposes, he's staring at Tron's ass. Flushing, even though nobody's around to see it, he covers his face and slumps down on the couch, pretends that his heart isn't racing a mile a minute.

Well, that's new. Fuck.

"Sam?"

He tilts his head and moves a finger to peer out at Tron. The program's turned his head, giving Sam a very good view of his profile. It takes another few seconds to realize that Tron's asking after his well-being.

"I'm fine," he mumbles into his palm. "Just tired."

Tired and confused and-well, no, not confused. Just tired and avoiding everything right now. He slides down even further while angling his body until he's lying stretched out on the couch, feet propped up on the armrest and arm resting over his eyes. He can almost make out the faint beat of the music on the other side and now he can also hear the smooth whirring from the other person in the room.

Sam doesn't move for what feels like a long time. It should be easy to just fall asleep but he's still awake long after the last sheep jumps the fence. What he did manage to do is continue avoiding the questions knocking at the imaginary wall he propped up in his mind. He doesn't feel ready to actually _think_about what's laid out in front of him...or who's still standing on the other side of the room.

"Are you gonna keep standing there or what?"

"I don't need rest."

Sam considers quoting Crystal but decides to ask a question instead. "What does recompilation do to you?"

He can hear the hesitance loud and clear in the space between them.

"Recompiling translates the...code that defines us into something more...physical." Every word is carefully chosen, like Tron's echoing what he read, heard, or was told elsewhere. "It drains us, which is why Flynn always kept a vial of energy or two around in case he had to recompile someone. From the way I feel it must've been..."

Sam can see the deresolution clearly in his head, can see the display and the corrosive damage cutting through lines of code. The memory of nearly losing Tron is almost too much for him and he bites his lip hard to keep from losing it. With the fear is the sudden need to make sure Tron is _here _and he tilts his head to the side, just enough to catch a glimpse of the silhouette standing by the transparent wall.

He takes a shuddering breath and roughly says, "It was bad."

After a thought he adds, "And don't say you're sorry."

There's a huff of rueful laughter from the other side of the room as Tron bows his head. "I won't."

* * *

><p>If he dreamed he doesn't remember. The incessant echo of a heartbeat vibrates the dreamscape, disrupting the faint impressions of images that flip through his head like a slideshow with a faulty projector. When he eventually comes to it's with a crick in his neck, a sore shoulder, and a fast-fading feeling of loss.<p>

The ceiling above him is the same but there's more space everywhere. He slides his hand along the soft surface and then slowly sits up. He looks around the room and realizes that there's a problem. How'd he get from the couch to the bed?

He tries to rub the sleep off his face and then considers just lying down again. The beat hasn't stopped and it takes his sluggish mind almost a minute to realize that it's not his heart but the music. He watches the scene through the transparent wall; the MP3s have the programs on their feet, rousing them with the fast-paced medley they're mixing on the fly. Circuits pulse in sync with the rhythm and as he watches his heart matches it, and the white lines on his body intensify in response. A disconcerted feeling settles in, a restless hum of energy that pulls and pushes him, coaxes him to move.

He blinks several times to sharpen his vision, rubs his face and rolls his neck and shoulders. As he does he catches sight of an impression on the bed next to him and stares. He looks around the room and realizes something else.

Where's Tron?

The loneliness hits harder than he expects. An old fear starts manifesting as Tron's absence rings in Sam's head; it's either staying in here, paralyzed, or moving - running - so he slides off the bed onto his feet and starts for the door. One tap and it slides open.

On the other side the beat vibrates the air; moving through it feels like walking into a lightning storm. As he emerges from the short hallway into the club a few programs take notice, gives him appraising looks that make him flush. He keeps moving to work off the anxiety but gives programs a wide berth as he approaches the bar; he doesn't feel like encouraging contact and no one he sees is Tron. It's still unavoidable that he'll bump into others - it's a busy hour - and each time the accidental touch shocks the breath out of him. Nobody notices him, though, as they find the heavy cadence more entrancing than the User walking in their midst.

The bar is crowded, a row of brightly lit programs sitting or standing next to the counter. Sam looks for a gap in the ranks and spots two green-lit programs leave, drinks in hand. He makes a beeline for the vacated spot and slides onto the barstool. He looks over his shoulder constantly as he leans on the counter and waits for Crystal; the faces are all unfamiliar except for the helmeted heads of the MP3s throwing out melody after melody to the crowd below them. He watches, feels his heart beat faster, breathes harder with every new rhythm, and ends up pressing his hand against his chest, closes his eyes against the play of light to stop the rush of vertigo.

"You look like you need this," Crystal says somewhere in front of him.

He opens his eyes and looks up at the Siren and the light blue cocktail she sets on the counter. The slim glass and the small rather charming umbrella in it makes him realize how dry his mouth is and he picks it up. With a grateful nod to her he drinks the glowing energy; it jolts him, makes his skin crawl with an electric buzz. Sam blinks rapidly as he stares at it. The music's volume suddenly increases several decibels and the drumming in his head starts up again.

"What the hell's in this?"

She gives him a strange look. "Same thing I'm giving everybody else. Why?"

He shakes his head, swipes his tongue over his upper lip and tastes the tang of energy. It strums under his skin, setting a slow fire to his nerves; he's flush with too much heat and hyperaware of his surroundings. He can feel the music's pulse roll over him, the beat through the circuits on his Disc Wars armor, the cool glass between his fingers, the pressure at the back of his mind, the hot presence of the programs on either side of him and the weight of their curious glances on his bright circuitry. He rubs at his face, trying to shake it off, and pushes the glass away from him.

It has to be the music. He's sure of it. He turns to watch the MP3s but they don't so much as tilt their helmets in his direction. He briefly glances at the crowd but nobody looks like the one he's searching for.

"I said I'd kick them out if they tried it again," Crystal says and he almost falls off.

"You're still here?"

She pulls out a carafe and a small glass from under the counter. "They aren't all looking for a buzz, but she's not here. They'll just have to wait."

She pours something fruity pink into her glass and tops off his; he watches the colors swirl as the cocktail becomes violet. Crystal takes a long pull of her glass and then fixes him with a look. He realizes she's waiting for him to say something.

He slides his glass back to him and stares at the umbrella as he quietly asks, "Where's Tron?"

When she doesn't immediately answer he looks up, his heart pounding too loud, too fast, trying to climb up his throat. The expression on her face is unreadable and he braces himself for the worst.

"He was here, earlier," she finally says. "Came out the back, had a drink, talked for a bit. Wanted to know all the details of this sector, including what I've been overhearing, and which of our neighboring sectors is more likely to try to take over. Won't be easy, I told him. Most of them still see him as Rinzler. They have no patience for anyone who used to be part of that system."

His hand curls around the refilled glass. "I know."

"Didn't talk for too long, though. Asked all the right questions but he was distracted. Something else was on his mind so I told him to go figure that out first."

"So he's not here?"

She tilts her head at him. "Something like that."

Sam nods blankly as he twists the glass. Violet energy splashes on the counter and he hastily wipes it away with his hand.

"Something bothering you, too?" Crystal asks.

Is there? Sam thinks about it, or rather he thinks about what Crystal said about Tron. He knows what's bothering the security program but he didn't think it would make him leave. Sam tenses as soon as the thought crosses his mind; did he do something wrong? It's not the first time he'd been left behind for making the wrong choice, but he got over it and moved on. He always moved on, right up until Alan confronted him after his yearly prank on the company and gave him the keys to the old arcade. And even then...

_But this is Tron,_ his mind supplies anxiously. _This is different._

Maybe it's time to stop ignoring the elephant in the room, especially since Sam isn't going to be on the Grid for much longer.

He starts pushing the cocktail glass from one side of the backlit panel to the other. "Since you're the bartender here-"

"I should be since the Game Grid is nonfunctional right now."

He grimaces at his idiotic opening line. "Right. Never mind. Do...do they ever talk to you?" At the look on her face he clarifies, "About problems. Do they ever talk to you about their problems?"

"We all have problems. You want to talk about yours?"

_Yes. No. I don't know._

What's he going to say? That he overheard Enyo talk to Tron about him, how he means more to Tron than he'll let on? That Sam thought he knew what he was looking for but the longer he's here the less he's sure? That he's afraid?

Afraid of what?

"After Dad disappeared, after Clu trapped him in here I...I got pretty good at pretending I was okay," he says slowly, thickly, eyes trained on the purple cocktail. "Like...pretending I was fully functional even though I knew something was wrong with me."

Crystal moves to say something but instead shuts her mouth.

"They always left me behind." His voice drops as he slides a fabric-covered thumb along the side of the glass. "So I stopped caring. Pushed them away. All I wanted to do was find Dad because he was everywhere, and who wants be around a fucked up kid like that? Obsessing over his old man because everyone expects him to step into those shoes, leaving everyone behind because he'd always been left behind.

"But Alan always gave me a second chance. So, I finally took it and found myself here, fighting a program with my Dad's face. It's pretty fucked up, especially for someone like me." He considers stopping to taste the cocktail but instead pushes the tiny glass umbrella from one side to the other. "I've been alone for so long, and suddenly I have Q and Dad's company and...I come back and I find...

"...I find _him_."

_I find _you_._

The fear wraps around him as what he's been ignoring finally breaks through and crashes down in his head. Sam's terrified, plain and simple. He's been a fucked up kid who's been alone for too long. He knows he can just handle it like he's always done - push it all down, hide everything in the deepest recesses of his mind, and walk away, pretend everything's okay - but just because he can doesn't mean he will. Not with Tron. Not with the program who's been through such hell. Not with the person who stayed by his side and helped him every step of the way while never asking for anything in return. Whatever he feels about Sam - as someone more than a User, a savior, a creator, an ally, a friend - he deserves better. If he wants better. Better than Sam.

Fuck, he doesn't know. He really doesn't know.

"Sam."

A hand closes over his wrist and he breathes sharply, realizes that his hands are shaking. He looks up at the Siren's hexagon pupils and is pinned down by the hard stare.

"What are you really afraid of?" she asks.

The answer comes out easier than he expected. "I don't want to fuck it up. Not with him."

"Then don't."

He shakes his head. "That's not it. I-"

"Then _don't_. Stop selling yourself so short, Sam Flynn. You're better than you think you are." The glass slides out of his hands and a bit of energy splashes on the backlit panel. "Now start acting like it. You're only a liability to yourself and everybody else if you keep thinking that way."

She starts moving away and he reaches forward, slides to the edge of the stool as he tries to stop her. "Wait!"

Crystal looks at him expectantly and he takes a deep breath, asks, "Where's Tron?"

The panel he's leaning on blazes white but ignores it or the reactions it's garnering from other programs. He waits for the Siren to say something, anything about Tron's whereabouts.

"The couches in the back," she finally says. "He won't go anywhere as long as you're here."

He's still here. Sam looks over his shoulder, tries to see over the crowd on the dance floor at the couches lining the wall. He can't make out the programs sitting on them but it doesn't matter; none of them sport blue circuits.

"Sam."

He turns back to Crystal.

"Whatever you do, don't screw it up."

She walks away, sets the purple cocktail on one of the shelves, and starts talking to an impatient-looking program as she grabs two bottles and an empty glass. Sam watches her for several seconds longer while her words echo in his head.

_Don't screw it up._

His shoulders sag as he stares down at the panel and the droplets of purple energy on its surface. How isn't he supposed to screw it up? Why did she even ask him that? Why couldn't she just ask him what he really wanted? Why can't he have a straightforward answer for once? Nothing's made sense since he activated the digitizer and went in. The state of the Grid, the state of the programs, the things they want and ask of him, the files he was looking for that gave him no answers, and the new commitment to his father's legacy are all too much for him. The panic climbs up his throat as he trembles in place and feels the need to run.

_I can't. Not without you._

Despite what happened the last time they met, despite what happened the _first_ time they met, when their paths crossed again Tron said _"You can call me Tron, too"_, offered his help, and never left his side from that moment on. He was so broken and Sam was so lost, and yet they managed to make it work, pushed each other to become better than they thought they were. And it's because of that that for once Sam's trying to be completely honest with himself.

So he's afraid. He's afraid of what might happen when he asks Tron what Enyo meant while they were in the I/O tower. He's afraid of the unbridled fear he felt when he thought he was going to lose Tron back in the Outlands, afraid of his growing want and need to have Tron at his side. He's afraid of what he thinks could be love for the security program, and he's afraid of what might happen if he walks away from it all. He just can't turn his back on Tron, who deserves far better but might just settle for him.

Tentative resolve forms a barrier against the doubts in his mind and nudges him off the barstool into the crowd. It pushes him through the tight, writhing spaces between lit bodies as he heads toward the back. Somewhere behind him the MP3s slide in melody after melody, beat after beat, layering them and electrifying the atmosphere. The music throbs, surrounds and strokes his nerves, makes him heady and breathless while it strums his heart. He presses his hand to his chest briefly, then uses it to push a program aside as he escapes the crowd to the back, where a few programs watch from the couches and around small tables lit by slender bars of white light. Sam lists to the side, wipes the sweat off his forehead as he catches his breath. He then turns to his left and the drumming in his head becomes thunder.

Tron's sitting at the far end of the row of couches, elbows resting on his knees and a hand loosely holding a glass of blue energy. He's staring at the floor, face pensive and torn, and for a long second Sam almost turns back to the bar. Instead he takes a deep breath and steps forward, clenches his hands tightly to stop them from shaking as he slowly closes the distance between them. Tron only looks up when Sam's standing in front of him, and he sits up, lets the glass slip through his fingers to shatter into bits of code.

Despite the deafening music and the resonance of the heartbeat in his head Sam can hear the whispered word, the low heavy drag on his name that makes him shiver.

"_Sam._"

The world slows and then shrinks, disappears until all Sam can see is Tron, all he can hear is the cadence in the back of his head, all he can feel is the flush of anxiety and fear and thrill of something waiting to happen. He swipes his tongue over his teeth and tastes the trace of energy, shifts from foot to foot as he desperately searches for something to say.

"Look, about...this..." Nervous laughter bubbles up and he clamps down, draws in a deep ragged breath, and tries again. "This isn't...I don't-I'm not..."

What's he trying to say? The words die at the back of his throat as he looks at the shards of code on the floor. He squeezes his eyes shut for a precious second, gathers himself, and then looks up to meet Tron's steady gaze. The doubt is there, the uncertainty of this moment-in-flux, the fear of this thing between them that they've been building together without thought. Sam wonders if the conclusion Tron came to is different from his and takes an involuntary half-step back, but Tron shifts forward as if to stop him from running. And then he sees the longing, the want and need behind the fear, and realizes that Tron wants this just as much as he does. Maybe it's enough. Maybe it's all Sam needs to close what little distance still separates them.

So he slides a step forward, ignoring the pounding in his head and the suffocating tightness in his chest as he lifts his hand and reaches out. Tron tilts his chin up and holds himself perfectly still as Sam traces the curve of his jaw with tentative fingertips. The touch is fleeting but he sees Tron shiver and close his eyes, and he feels like he's been hit by lightning.

Swallowing hard, Sam pulls his hand away as he tries to think of anything to say and Tron's eyes open, the pupils flashing and reflecting the lights of the club like stars. He freezes, then starts when Tron wraps a hand around his forearm and tugs him forward. Sam follows without thought; his knees hit the couch and he slides up on it, grips the top of couch with his other hand to balance himself as he straddles Tron. He tries to catch his breath as he settles against the program, gasps when Tron presses his hand to the small of his back to pull him forward until their bodies are almost flush against each other. Sam adjusts himself and Tron's hand slides down and right, brushing over a circuit low on his hip; something like cold fire roars through his body and he presses his forehead to Tron's shoulder as he heaves for air, shudders through the echoes of intense pleasure.

_What-what was...?_

Another shiver runs through his body when Tron whispers his name; it's right against his ear, the voice a warm caress that promises so many unsaid things, and Sam numbly thinks he'll never get tired of it. Slowly he lifts his head and sits back, looks at the fond smile on Tron's face and how it shifts as he rests his hand on his neck and slides his palm up. Sam rubs the program's jaw with his thumb, watches the way Tron's eyes darken and lips part as his blue circuits flare up and burn. Sam always thought Tron a sight to see, with his unusual circuitry and his prowess as a warrior, but seeing him like this, trembling and wanton, is terrifying and beautiful.

It's more than Sam can handle.

He leans in, pressing his forehead to Tron's, tasting static in the air and the pulsing beat of the music in the distance. "This is insane."

"Is it?" Tron asks softly.

Sam wants to say yes. He's falling in love with a computer program, for fuck's sake. But it's not like his life has ever been normal, and this is something that he wants, something that feels _right_.

"No."

He glances down at Tron's mouth, wonders if he knows what Users do, and decides to go with it. Tron is faster, though, and catches Sam off-guard when he tilts his head up and kisses him.

The soft press is electric, shocks all the air out of his lungs and sends his heart into overdrive. Much too soon Tron breaks contact, looks at him anxiously and with a touch of trepidation, and Sam realizes he doesn't know what to do beyond that. So when Tron tries to pull back Sam stops him, sliding his hand over the curve of his jaw and through dark hair, holds him in place and tilts his head up. Dark gray eyes watch him carefully, then flutter and close when Sam leans in and traces the curve of his bottom lip with his tongue, coaxing his mouth open. Tron slowly yields and Sam tilts his head to change the angle, carefully licks his way into the program's mouth. The tang of energy blooms on his tongue, hints of the blue cocktail, and it prickles pleasantly as he teases with a flick and a slick slide, tries to get Tron to respond.

It's intriguing how much more like humans programs are than he expected, though it's also just as clear that they don't do things the way Users do - if they do this at all. A thought flits through his mind - _How did you know what I was doing?_- and vanishes just as quickly; he feels Tron finally respond, mouth moving against his with more confidence the longer Sam kisses him.

Tron moves the hand resting low on Sam's back, trying to pull him even closer, and curves the other over his shoulder blade, fingers pressing down on a wide circuit; Sam jerks back, hissing, lost in the haze of a sudden power surge.

"Sam?" Tron asks, voice breaking and too frightened for his liking.

There's worry in his eyes where there shouldn't be, and Sam takes a deep, harsh breath, clears his throat and hoarsely says, "I'm fine." He rakes his fingers through Tron's hair, feels the full body shudder and what he imagines to be a hum that's more a purr. He sees the tremor of the program's lower lip, licks his own, and adds, "Just…not used to it. That's all."

Tron nods though he still looks wary and Sam kisses him to erase it, teases with his tongue until the program finally, tentatively flicks his out to caress the bow of his upper lip. Sam opens his mouth and sucks his tongue in, earns a shudder and a loud Rinzler-like rumble as Tron first tries to pull back, then settles and presses in. He's questing and cautious, unsure but willing to try, and Sam indulges him, coaxes him along while relishing the slow burn spreading through his body and the living heat of the program under him. Tron tastes bittersweet, tastes like the slide of his hand over Sam's circuit, tastes like a bridled force waiting for release.

The moment when he needs air comes too soon and Sam pulls back; displeased, Tron growls and tries to follow him, and that right there ignites the heat curled tight in his chest, sets his senses ablaze and circuits throbbing with light and want. The hands tighten on Sam's back possessively as Tron pulls him forward until their circuits press, and the resulting friction has Sam keening and burying his face in the crook of Tron's neck, sends a white-hot power surge through his body...and out the hand he planted against the wall for leverage. Thin tendrils of white circuits spread out from under his palm and fingers like the branches of a tree, illuminating their corner of the club and pulsing to the beat of the MP3's music.

Sam stares, breathless and wondering and confused until he lifts his hand off the wall; the circuits dim and then fade completely. He looks down at Tron, whose circuits are all aglow, and then over his shoulder at the curious onlookers slowly gathering around the impromptu light show.

_Well, shit._

Embarrassed and in no way interested in telling them what just happened he curls up around Tron and rests his head against Tron's shoulder, stares at the circuits on his chest and mutters, "Shit."

Somewhere behind him the music changes tempo and he _feels _the atmosphere change, throb with new life and the promise of a good time. When he chances a look over his shoulder again the programs are gone, moving back to the crowd on dance floor and leaving them alone. More suspicious than baffled he cranes his neck, looking for the MP3s, but the warm mouth skimming along the line of his exposed neck pulls his attention away. He closes his eyes and shivers, drags in air through clenched teeth when Tron strokes his side and his fingers skim along the edge of the circuit there. Sam can't help moving against him in response, making the program shudder and rumble loudly; Tron responds with another drag along the circuit, creating some kind of positive feedback loop that's slowly and surely unraveling him.

He doesn't want it to end - it feels so good and he loves that it's Tron doing this to him - but he also doesn't want to create another spectacle. He's all but gone from the building pleasurable high, though, moaning and shaking and so ready to fly apart; it's Tron who stops and pulls away, leaving him aching and desperate for more. Sam presses against him, tries to form words to ask why he stopped, and Tron beats him to the punch, says in a strained voice into his ear, "I don't...go there often, but I have a place near the center of the city."

"Yeah?" Reluctantly Sam uncurls himself and sits back on Tron's lap, considers his handiwork as he traces a swollen lip with his thumb. Tron's circuits flicker as the rumbling starts again and his pupils glow blue-white for a breathless moment. Sam grins at the reaction, brushes his mouth against Tron's, and says, "Let's get out of here."

As they make their way through the crowd of programs between them and the exit Tron takes Sam's hand in his, linking them together as he weaves them in and out of the maze of writhing lit bodies. Sam thinks about saying something smart about the handholding but nothing comes to mind; all he can focus on is the warm firm hand around his, the circuits on the back of the fingers and thumb a steady reassuring glow. As they near the door he looks for the MP3s again, sees them on their platform toasting the crowd with neon cocktails as they move their helmeted heads in time to the music. One of them always seems to know where he is, though; one of them turns its head to him, elbows its companion and points, and they both give him a thumbs-up.

Sam stares at them, wondering if they're in league with the others, and then Tron pulls him out of the club.

* * *

><p>She watches them leave while the program she's been talking with walks away with her drink. Once they're out of sight she looks at the MP3s. One shrugs while the other makes a lewd gesture; they then turn to each other, nod, and enthusiastically start playing louder, faster music.<p>

Crystal rolls her eyes but she can't stop smiling as she slides three steps to her left to address a program who wants an audience with Enyo.


	12. 12

**Author's Note:** If I were able to give each chapter a rating I'd give this one an "M" for "Mature". Just a heads up.

* * *

><p><strong>We Are Pilots<strong>

**12**

"Older models," Tron says as he leans over from his lightcycle to pull up a display on Sam's, "have a slot for specially modified data cards inscribed with the coordinates to your destination. With these-" He traces a line from a seemingly arbitrary spot in Enyo's sector to the heart of the city. "-whatever you input here will transfer to your disk, and you can always bring up the map if you're lost."

"Why would I get lost?" he asks as he studies the route; it's a circuitous path that he guesses is meant to avoid the more troublesome areas on the Grid, which can also be easily avoided by using a shortcut. "I have you."

Apparently the security program has other ideas and he's not sharing. Instead he just smiles and brushes his index finger along the white circuit on Sam's forearm as his head disappears under the gleaming black helmet. Next thing Sam knows Tron's lightcycle is half a city block away and making a right at the intersection.

"Oh I see how it is," Sam says, a bit breathless from the electrifying touch.

He shakes his head as he lowers himself on the lightcycle; the back extends to lock on his disk and with a rush his mind floods with the memory of a marked map. A sudden burst of acceleration takes his breath away as his lightcycle leaps forward and the buildings on either side of him become a black and cyan blur.

The race is on.

Adrenaline junkies like Sam live off of the thrill of the chase; it's fuel for his racing heart, a high that courses through his circuits like fire and warps his mind until all he can see is the blue lightcycle ahead and all he can think is that he has to catch Tron and finish first. With that in mind he urges his lightcycle to breakneck speed, reaches the point where he hears nothing but the whistling wind, the lightcycles smooth purr, and the pounding blood in his head as he follows Tron down streets and slingshot around corners and curving turns.

No matter how hard he pushes his lightcycle or cuts corners Tron maintains his lead as they weave through the sector; as they near the next one Sam spots an overpass and swerves left towards it, hoping it'll give him a slight advantage.

He wishes he hadn't. Up here there are no street circuits or lit buildings to show the way; he is the only source of light on the highway. Confused and uncomfortable with the drastic shift in atmosphere Sam looks over his shoulder; behind him Rho Sector is bright and lively but here, near the border with the next, everything's dark and quiet. Not even Enyo and Crystal, with all their know-how and expertise, could make their chosen sector fully functional, and the anxiety over what's expected of him as the Grid's new creator starts eating at the simple joy of racing someone from Point A to Point B.

"Focus," he tells himself, voice distorted by the shield in front of his face, as he looks for a way back down to ground level.

He spots a ramp coming up and tilts his lightcycle towards it, leaps into the air and lands halfway down the slope just in time to see Tron streak by under the overpass. Sam swears and gives chase, tilting the lightcycle at such an angle that his knee almost scrapes the ground.

This sector is as straightforward as one can get; aside from the overpass all the streets are laid out in a perfect grid; one just has to pick a direction and keep going to reach the other side. Dark towers loom on either side as Sam follows Tron through the area; some of them, he notices with brief glances as they fly by, look like they've been ravaged by something.

Up ahead is a colorful glow. The map in his head is already starting to fade into a series of impressions and Sam glances down at the body of the lightcycle, tries to remember where Tron pressed to bring up the map. He's still looking down when they hit what looks like a wall of light; the transition into color is brutal on his eyes and he winces, almost tucks his head against his upper arm. Just in time he remembers that he's on a moving lightcycle - and his helmet is in the way - and straightens himself at the last second to swerve by two stunned programs standing in the middle of the street. He waves to them as he goes by, grinning at the stupefied expressions on their faces.

The deeper they go into this sector the more crowded it gets. The wide sidewalks are bursting with blue and green streaks but he doesn't take his eyes off the lightcycle ahead of him to look around-well, he does but only to find shortcuts that'll cut into Tron's lead. Is he imagining things or is Tron actually putting _more _distance between him and Sam?

"No way," he mutters, jumps the sidewalk and scatters programs, streaks through the corner of a city block, and almost crashes into an unoccupied tank that's sitting just out of sight.

"Shit!"

At the last second he changes direction and his lightcycle skims across the armored skirt covering the tank's wheels before hitting the ground. Sam's chest crashes into the lightcycle's hard curved surface, knocking the breath out of him; when he kicks it back into gear Tron's almost out of sight.

"That was close." He glances at the tank, swallows his heart back down his throat, and goes after Tron.

Following Tron closely - or as closely as he can get, seeing that Tron's at least seven lightcycles ahead of him - pays off, since the path the security program takes carries them away from the heavy traffic. They race through main streets, alleyways, overpasses, and tunnels and Tron's still in front; Sam finally manages to pull up the map without crashing into someone or something, and starts looking for a shortcut.

They enter the next sector without slowing down and it's like plunging into ice-cold water, which Sam has had some experience with but doesn't like to linger on. Like the one next to Enyo's it's dark but there's something threatening about the silhouettes rising up around him and the few programs loitering by the entrance of the one light tower in the area. They look up when Sam passes by in a jerky fashion, like they're genuinely surprised by signs of life in this place, and it weighs on his shoulders. The distance between him and Tron grows for several seconds as Sam slows down to take in the sector's cold silence.

Where are all the programs?

The answer comes to mind swiftly - the Rectifier, the Game Grid - and Sam shivers, shakes his head, and looks up to see Tron's lightcycle tilt left at a distant intersection.

A quick glance at the map shows him what route Tron's taking and which shortcut best serves Sam's interest. He minimizes the display and sends his lightcycle through the dimly lit streets and alleyways, weaving a diagonal path to where Tron will be. He catches a glimpse of a blue blur as he streaks by other streets and alleys, and then merges onto a larger street right behind Tron. A quick burst of acceleration has him draw even with the program while the buildings drop back, leaving them on a wide curving overpass taking them to the sector at the center of the city.

The towering landmark that housed the End of Line Club looms before them, dark and cold, a relic of Clu's thousand-year reign. The actual construct that held the club is gone and Sam thinks about the MP3s, wondering how one of them got the crack on its helmet. His mind wanders to Zuse's limp and Crystal's bitterness over Gem's alliance with him, and the thoughts start crowding out the things Sam would rather think about. He blinks several times, scattering them, and then looks at Tron; the helmeted head is tilted in his direction and Sam can easily imagine the expression Tron's wearing underneath it.

"It's nothing," he says loudly, even though only he can hear himself

The smaller towers and buildings around the abandoned skyscraper are half-lit, scattered windows and long circuit lines glowing half-heartedly in cyan. It's quite a contrast to Sam's only visit to this sector; no tanks or Sentries patrol the streets, monitoring all activity to root out a User. The few programs out here are by themselves and they don't even look up as Sam goes by them, so keen are they on getting from one place to another with as little trouble as possible.

This sector is a ghost town. Tron lives here?

Sam sees him make a right at a nearby intersection and quickly follows, relieved to put the skyscraper behind him. They're on a narrow street lit only by a few occupied buildings and two programs on the sidewalk, who turn their heads to watch Sam go by. Tron makes a right turn two intersections down, then a left, leading Sam deeper and deeper into the sector. The security program's lightcycle decelerates and Sam hits the brakes, watches Tron pull to the curb in front of an unremarkable, easily forgettable building. The street itself is ordinary at best, the structures dark and the area empty of activity, but he can see the glow of the city in the skyline and despite everything it's simply incredible. Maybe that's why Tron chose this place.

Tron's already walking inside when Sam parks at the curb and sits up on the lightcycle, glass doors sliding open with a quick tap on a blue-white panel on the wall. Sam catches the sideways glance in his direction and quickly dismounts, swipes up the baton just as it finishes compressing the lightcycle, and almost stubs his toes as he hops up onto the sidewalk. He looks up, eyes tracing the narrow blue circuit scaling the building.

The lobby is lit with thin rectangular panels lining the border of the floor. The interior decor is severely lacking - or rather, nonexistent - and the only thing worth inspecting is the cylindrical elevator shaft at the back. His footsteps echo off the concave walls as he crosses the floor to Tron, who's watching the display above the elevator door.

"So we're playing hard to get now," Sam says, looking at him with a raised eyebrow.

Tron says nothing, but as the elevator arrives he reaches over and slides his fingertips down the long white circuit curving over Sam's left shoulder. Sam gasps, closes his eyes as heat ripples through his body, and shudders as Tron breaks contact. Pinpricks of light cloud his field of vision as he draws in one shaky breath after another and he blinks rapidly to clear them away. When he looks up Tron is waiting for him in the elevator, circuits radiating a bright and blazing blue.

The door slides shut as he steps inside and the elevator stutters like it's hesitating over its task. Sam stares at the backlit floor panels and shifts from foot to foot as it finally decide to go up; he raises his head as a pair of feet appear in his field of vision and considers the intense look on Tron's face as he lets himself be backed into the wall. He hits the transparent rail behind him, braces himself against it, and angles his hips up, widens his stance to let Tron slide in. It feels like he belongs here, up against Sam, bright and solid and running hot. Tron presses his thumb on the circuit line on the right side of Sam's front and slides up slow and with just enough pressure; it's like fireworks on his senses, so many things going off at once and leaving him breathless and lightheaded as pressure starts to build and build.

Sam tilts his head back against the wall, trying to catch his breath while his body hums from the stimulation; a second later Tron leans in, gripping the rail to bracket Sam between his arms, and follows the curve of his jaw with an open mouth. Sam swallows hard, shivering from the sensation, and then groans when Tron shifts against him, circuits sliding against each other. What experience Sam's had with other people just can't compare with what feels like lightning racing through his nerves, a hot-cold rush that leaves his heart pounding and his mind reeling. He reflexively presses against Tron, hips thrusting up, and the friction creates a power surge that rolls through him in a relentless wave; if not for his death grip on the rail he'd be on the floor.

Tron slams his hand against the wall, trembling on his feet and rumbling so loudly the whir ricochets off every flat surface; he's so bright, face illuminated as if by some inner glow, and he looks so inhuman that Sam's afraid to touch him, fearful of in some way marring the perfection standing in front of him.

Then Tron carefully, experimentally, moves against him, mimicking the _very _human reaction to sexual stimuli, and Sam loses it.

"Fuck!" he gasps. "Shit. How-is that supposed to-" and then Tron is kissing him, derailing him completely as he's shoved up against the wall.

Tron's tentative at first, shifting from a hard but chaste press of lips to licking at his mouth like an afterthought, but soon enough he starts mirroring Sam, sliding in slick and hot, and mapping its shape with uncharacteristic recklessness. With a groan Sam blindly reaches for him, slides his hands up to cup the program's face and bury his fingers in the dark soft hair while deepening the kiss. The rumbling drops a decibel as Sam curls his tongue around Tron's and sucks on it; the growl as Tron reasserts his control travels down Sam's throat and settles with a heady thrum in his circuits.

It's glorious and vertigo-inducing, and Sam desperately needs a breather. "Wait, wait," he murmurs and Tron stops, pulls back while Sam leans against the wall, heaving for air. His lips are swollen and sore, and he's aching all over from pent-up need throbbing in his circuitry; Tron looks impossibly composed in comparison except for where his circuits pulse a shade of blue that's almost violet and he keeps staring at Sam's mouth like it's the most fascinating thing on the Grid.

He's also carefully maintaining his distance, which to Sam is an impossible feat since he'd like nothing more than to wrap himself around Tron and never let go. Tron remains tantalizingly close, though, and he decides to do something about it.

"You learn fast," he says as he slides the palm of his hand along the side of Tron's face. Tron presses against it, eyes closing for a brief moment while his circuits flare, and Sam swears he's purring.

"Never said I didn't know what to do," Tron replies and he sounds _wrecked_.

"Yeah? Well how about with a User?"

Whatever Tron tries to say Sam swallows with his mouth; he licks his way inside, tongue prickling with static at every stroke and caress. He drags the program closer, presses up against him with a roll of his hips, and shivers at the needy noises escaping Tron's throat. Tron pushes back, responding in like, creating heated friction that electrifies every nerve, every inch of his body. He traps Tron's bottom lip between his teeth, worries at it before letting go to mouth at his jaw; his hand slides down the program's chest, feeling the thrum of living heat under his palm.

Sam closes his eyes against the intensifying glow of their circuitry as he scrapes his teeth along the long line of Tron's neck; there's a stutter in the rumbling whir and a shudder before Tron pushes down on the circuit sitting on his hip with his thumb. Sam hisses, jerks forward against the program, and his hand presses hard against the circuit on Tron's chest. He's entirely unprepared for the surge of electricity roaring through him in a dizzying rush, bangs his head against the wall while everything whites out in a long heart-stopping moment; Tron cries out and buries his face in the crook of Sam's neck, shaking violently while the elevator comes to an abrupt halt and the light panels go out.

A deep breath and the world comes into focus, lit with the glow of bright circuitry. Sam stares blankly at the elevator door, his heart thumping loudly in his head; he doesn't think he can move, not without his knees buckling under and bringing them both down to the floor. Slowly he slides his free hand along the wall and brings up the coding, coaxes the elevator to move again with shaking fingers; a few seconds later the ceiling and floor panels flicker rapidly and then light up.

He laughs weakly at the absurdity of what just happened - they broke the elevator, what the hell - and lifts his head off the wall, looks down at the program in his arms. Sam gently strokes the back of Tron's head and he trembles and keens, circuits brightening with each touch and casting everything in shades of blue.

"So, uh, that wasn't supposed to happen," Sam says and his hoarse voice sounds impossibly loud. "I think."

Tron responds with a loud Rinzler-like purr and it vibrates through him as the program presses a slow, lazy open-mouthed kiss to the underside of his jaw; he stays curled up against Sam until the elevator starts losing momentum and slows for the impending stop. Reluctantly he lifts his head and steps back, leaving Sam feeling cold and aching for his presence, his touch. He resists rubbing at the slow-burning imprint on his jaw, instead sweeps his eyes over Tron and takes in the unsteady stance, the disheveled hair and flushed circuits, and the controlled, intense gaze.

His mouth goes dry as the drumming starts up again in the back of his head.

The elevator stops and Sam sways against the rail from the loss of momentum. The door slides open and Tron breaks eye contact to look over his shoulder. Sam notices darkened circuits marking the walls of the dimly lit hallway at uniform intervals like doors and wonders how that works. He supposes he'll find out soon enough, once they get out of the elevator.

Slowly he pushes himself off the wall and takes carefully measured steps to Tron, touches his arm to get his attention, and nods in the direction of the hall.

"So, gonna show me your place or what?"

* * *

><p>The circuits running along the walls are doors after all. Tron touches the line of a set of circuits far from the elevator shaft and they glow under his touch, bluish-white light spreading through the lines and carving out a tall narrow doorway. Sam glances up and down the hall as Tron walks through the entrance; nothing else stirs or flickers to life on his floor and he wonders if they're the only ones here. They might be the only ones in the entire building, and the thought makes him shiver uncomfortably. Did Tron choose this sector because it's so far away from everything else, secluded and lost in the midst of empty streets and towers, or because it's at the heart of the Grid and this is where he <em>should <em>be? His throat constricts at the thought and Sam swallows hard, pushes the questions aside for another time.

Once he steps into the foyer the missing chunk of wall rezzes back into place, sealing them inside. Sam looks up at the circuits marking the entryway and then turns around, watches Tron walk into the middle of the room and survey it like he's never been here before.

Only one of the six light panels on the walls works; Sam presses his hand on a nearby panel and it flickers to life, glowing steady soft white, but dies as soon as he takes his hand away. Frowning, he brings up the display and finds the broken line, inputs the missing code bridging the pieces together, and watches the panel come back to life. When he minimizes the display and lifts his hand off it the light flickers once and continues to glow. He then turns around to look at the rest of the apartment; it's basically a tiny, unfurnished loft with a high ceiling and plain walls adorned with nonfunctioning light panels and marked with dark lines lacing through the off-white surface.

He reaches out to touch the nearest circuit to see what happens - How do they work? What else can they do? - but something glints out of the corner of his eye and he looks up over his shoulder at the wall-sized window behind him.

The bluish glow of the active sectors define the cityscape, an entrancing incandescence outlining the silhouettes reaching for the sky. Here and there lines and pinpricks of light mark occupied towers, and to the left is the skyscraper at the heart of this sector. Sam crosses the floor to the window, wondering if he can see the I/O tower from here. He tilts his head, looking for the line of light - or the telltale star in the sky - and leans on the glass; his hands go through with little resistance and he stumbles out onto a small balcony.

"Holy shit!" _Okay, so that wasn't glass._

"I'm sorry," Tron says somewhere behind him. "I should've warned you-"

"It's fine. I'm fine. No harm done."

He shakes off the sudden shock and leans on the translucent railing, looks out at the city. The building is several stories taller than he thought and up here the wind is brisk, like splashing cold water on his face. He shivers as he takes in the eerie silence and relative inactivity, unusual for a city of this size and utterly alien for someone who spends so many of his days in the beating heart of Los Angeles. It's not hard to imagine how phenomenal the view must've been in the Grid's heyday, but even now the haunted glow of the dying city takes his breath away.

He wouldn't mind the solitude of this place, the small room in the empty building with the faulty elevator, if he can see _this_ and watch it come to life whenever he comes up here. And _that _thought has something hot and tight curling in his chest. He bows his head, takes a deep breath to calm himself down, and turns around.

"Impressive," he says, gesturing to the cityscape. And wincing inwardly at his word choice.

"I know."

Tron hasn't moved from the middle of the room; he'd been watching Sam the entire time. Sam leans against the rail, studying him; it slides into indulgence, his gaze traveling up the long lines of the security program's body and admiring the lean build. He smirks at the mussed hair, rubs his fingertips together as he imagines what he can do to make it worse, and then notices that he's not the only one with a roaming, appreciative eye.

"So we're just talking about the view, right?" he asks, casual and with a slight, rough drag. He leans back against the rail, angling his hips up and widening his stance; anticipation thrums under his skin as he watches Tron's demeanor change, shifting from a focused calm to something dark and intense. Almost predatory. Rinzler-like.

"Maybe," Tron says, voice low and carefully controlled.

They don't break eye contact as Tron walks through the transparent barrier out onto the balcony; in two strides he's pushing Sam up against the rail, a hand gripping it tightly while the other slides up Sam's front. He's running hot, circuits glowing brilliantly in the sunless sky, and it draws Sam in like a moth to the flame. He leans up and against Tron, trailing kisses along the side of his face, feeling him shudder with each lingering touch. Rather than end at his parted, waiting lips Sam continues down his neck, tracing the taut line with the tip of his tongue and teasing out a low rumbling moan. Tron shudders, then abruptly wraps his hand around the back of Sam's head and tilts it up for a kiss.

Tron's an even quicker study than Sam expected, and fast becoming addicted to kissing, if the way he fits his mouth over Sam's so easily and presses inside with a smooth, practiced slide is anything to go by. Sam doesn't mind at all, lets Tron indulge himself while he lets go of the rail to slide his hands up the program's front, exploring the hard planes of his body. It's been so long since he was this close to anyone physically - years, maybe, and there's a brief glimpse in his mind of a college bar and too many beers - and to let himself go like this, to take the time with someone he cares about on such a personal level, thrills him more than it probably should.

Heat and hunger burn through his circuits as he drags Tron to him and tries to take control, tongue stroking and curling around the program's as he thrusts his hips up; energy snaps through his circuits, setting his nerves on fire and filling his vision with stars. Tron rumbles, raking fingers through his hair and leaving him shivering from the sensation, and starts pulling him back inside the apartment. Sam stumbles along, one unsteady step at a time, unwilling to let go for even a millisecond. His hands slide everywhere, on Tron's shoulder, his upper arm, his side, his neck, keeping contact, keeping the program close. They make it through the transparent barrier separating the Grid from the relative solitude of the small room, and the change in pressure startles him, makes him stumble and almost bring them down to the floor. Tron grabs him by the upper arm and steadies him, and Sam huffs a laugh as he presses his forehead against Tron's shoulder, feeling like an idiot.

"Well, shit," he breathes out, heart thundering in his head for the wrong reason.

His eyes lock on the strange violet tint of Tron's circuits; curious, he flicks at the circuits under Tron's ribcage and Tron flinches, inhaling sharply while the glow becomes violently purple for a few seconds.

"Is that normal?" he asks.

"For us, yes," Tron says, voice trembling. "I don't know about you."

He's stroking the circuit running over Sam's left shoulder and down his back, fingers caressing the white line as it curves around his shoulder blade; Sam clenches his teeth, tries to breathe as white-hot pleasure grips him from head to toe. It's insane the way things work on the Grid, from the lack of functioning equipment to how the stimulation on these circuits throb deep in the core of his DNA-turn-code makeup, threatening to unravel him completely and utterly. It's exhilarating more than disturbing, an unfamiliar and heady rush of clarified want and need taking him so high, and fuck he might completely lose it just standing here while Tron does-keeps doing-_fuck_.

"Okay," he says hoarsely as he forces himself to step back from Tron and recollect himself. Tron lets him go reluctantly and watches with too bright eyes as he looks around the room. "Okay. Um. Tell me there's more to this place than..."

Tron walks by him, purposefully bumping his shoulder, and touches a single circuit line on the wall underneath one of the broken light panels. It glows bluish-white and races along the line, spreads out to all the other circuits running along the walls of the room; Sam stares, jaw going slack, as things unfold from the walls and rezz into existence. A low bed, a couch, a coffee table, and shelves fill in the space, and the apartment suddenly looks livable.

"Whoa." He walks over to the bed and nudges it with his foot to make sure it's actually there, and then looks over at Tron. "Now _this _is impressive."

"Someone showed me how to do it," Tron says softly as he leans on the wall next to an empty shelf. The fond, faraway smile on his face tells Sam enough. "It was...it was a long time ago."

Sam sits down on the foot of the bed and his heart sinks as he watches the smile fade. Tron looks lost, looks like the program leaning against the lightcycle when Sam emerged from the replica of Flynn's Arcade ages ago. His past keeps dragging him back no matter how hard he tries to move forward and it hurts watching it happen time and again. Sam knows what it's like, knows how hard it is to let it all go, and wonders if this is why he started to feel the magnetic pull to the program. All he really wants to do is erase that deep, aching sense of loss, even if it's only for a little while.

"Hey," and Tron looks up at him. "Come here."

Tron hesitates, wavers before walking across the floor to the bed. Sam reaches out, curls his fingers around Tron's, and pulls him in between his legs. Tron watches with questioning eyes, then closes them, shivers as Sam slides his hands up his thighs. Sam leans in and presses a careful kiss to his left hip, looks up at Tron as he then kisses the nearest circuit.

The reaction is instantaneous; the circuit flares up against his mouth, hot and electric, while Tron shakes, drags his fingers through the short hair on the back of Sam's head as a low, broken moan vibrates up his throat. Breathless and more than a bit curious, Sam flicks his tongue out and strokes the short bar of violet-blue light; it's like licking pure energy and it snaps through his circuits, wracking his body with heat and cold and blinding need. Gasping, he presses his forehead to the program's stomach, hands clutching at his hips. Tron's doubled over, face pressing into the crook of Sam's neck, trembling and rumbling loudly.

When Sam opens his eyes he sees violet circuits and fluctuating light at the edge of his field of vision. The light panels in the apartment are flickering, even the broken ones. He looks down at the bright white lines on his legs and feet, and then remembers what happened in the elevator.

_Don't want that happening again, _Sam thinks as he lets go of Tron and starts pulling himself up the bed. The program looks at him in bewilderment and he can't help smiling at that.

"Come on," he says. He leans forward and wraps his hand around Tron's wrist, tugs him up onto the bed. Tron follows slowly and uncertainly on his knees, not sure of Sam's intentions, and it's endearing. "You don't do this often, do you?"

"No. Not like this," Tron says. He looks at Sam expectantly, the question unspoken but clear.

Well Sam's not one to explain things. He just wraps his hand around the back of Tron's neck and kisses him slow and languorous, pressing into the hot energy-tinged mouth. There's a muffled moan as Tron leans into it, inches closer and curves his hands around Sam's face. His hands are warm, Sam thinks; so warm and so careful. They pull back slowly, Sam breathing heavily and the edges of the irises of Tron's eyes glowing blue-white.

It's so quiet in the room. All he can hear is the pounding in his head, the whirring hum from Tron. He looks at the program's bright gray eyes and the flickering, reflective pupils, slides his gaze down to the swollen parted mouth and then to the blue-violet glow of his circuits. Tron shifts, leaning in as if to kiss him again, and Sam smiles, buries his hand in the soft dark hair as they meet in the middle. He slowly pulls the program down on top of him as Tron presses into his mouth, tongue sliding against his and seeking to map every inch of it. Tron is still so careful, easing himself along as he follows Sam's touch, but the edge is there in his kiss, in the way he braces himself above Sam and slides forward abortively with his hips. Circuits press, flare from the friction, and Sam curls his fingers against the back of Tron's head, moans into his mouth.

It feels so good the way it throbs through the white lines on his body, pulsing hot and needy, so needy. Tron tries to get up on his knees and Sam hooks his foot around the back of the program's knee, stopping him.

"Don't," he mumbles, slurring a bit from the pleasure high. Already it's sinking back down, leaving him cold and desperate for more. "Don't go."

"I'm not," Tron says, rough and quiet and warm, and his voice wraps around them. "I'm not going anywhere."

Sam tries to say, _I know, that's not what I meant,_ but Tron bows his head and kisses him, caresses his mouth and his lips, and it's almost enough. There's still too much space between them and Sam tries to pull him back down, wanting contact, wanting to feel the weight of him, but Tron still won't budge. It's like he's oblivious to what happens next, and a thought crosses Sam's mind - _What exactly do you do? _He knows the program isn't completely clueless, so why-it's because he's a User, isn't it? Tron wouldn't hesitate with another program but with Sam he's mirroring every move because he doesn't know what to do with a User, and Sam hasn't shown him what happens next.

Well, he can work with that.

He pushes Tron back; the program rumbles, displeased, and tries to kiss him again. "Wait," he says hoarsely, pressing his thumb against Tron's lips and keeping him in place. "Hang on-"

His breath hitches when Tron sucks his thumb in; he can feel the heat through the simulated fabric, tongue swirling around the digit, and he flushes as he imagines that tongue elsewhere on his body and circuits. He glances at the hand braced against the bed next to his head, eyes skimming over the circuit lines on the back of Tron's fingers, and then shudders when Tron scrapes his teeth against the pad of his thumb.

Sam slowly slides his thumb out, rubs it along Tron's bottom lip as he tries to catch his breath. "That's…that's a new one."

Tron tries to kiss him again but Sam has something else in mind, brings his knee up and pushes the program over. He moves before Tron can get up, slides on top of him and presses him back down with hands on his shoulders. He grins as Tron furrows his eyebrows in confusion and tries to flip them over; he rolls his hips, pressing against the circuits low on Tron's front, and a thrill rushes up his back as Tron arches against him, keening while his circuits flare bright and violet. Sam takes a deep, shuddering breath while Tron sinks back down, leans over and says, "Let me."

"Sam-" His voice is harsh, thick with want. "What-"

"I just want to show you." Sam slides a hand down Tron's arm, pressing his thumb briefly against the circuit on the inside of his elbow, and tangles their fingers together. "That okay?"

There's the briefest flash of fear in Tron's eyes and his heart skips a beat. But Tron curls his fingers around Sam's, places his other hand on his thigh like it belongs there, and says, "Okay."

Slowly Sam moves his hand from Tron's shoulder down his front, splays his fingers over the circuits on the program's sternum. Tron inhales sharply, pupils flickering blue; Sam leans down and bites at his swollen lip, swallows the low broken moan out of his mouth, and then_ moves_.

The first slide brings out a deep growl as Tron jerks up against him, hand gripping his tightly; Sam hisses as the friction ignites his senses, tries to catch his breath and think through the haze settling in his mind. Another roll of his hips and this time Tron meets him with a perfectly timed thrust, leaves him gasping and shaking from the sudden rush of heat and pleasure. He lets go of Tron's hand to brace himself, closes his eyes as he rests his forehead against the program's.

"Oh god," he says, voice breaking. "Shit."

He moves again and his other hand slips on the four circuits on Tron's chest; the program makes a choked, needy sound, grabs at the bed with his free hand as he arches up against Sam. Frustratingly he won't put his hand elsewhere, and Sam really wants that hand elsewhere. Preferably on him.

"You can-" Tron tilts his head up, seeking his mouth and Sam obliges with a deep, questing kiss. The program rumbles and the hand on Sam's thigh curls with a well-placed stroke of his tongue. Sam sucks on his bottom lip and then tries again. "You can touch me, you know. I won't-_fuck-_"

Tron had been _waiting _for him to say that. His hand lands on Sam's shoulder blade, right on the circuit line, and follows it down the curve of his back; it's like he knows where to touch, where to press, where to slide, where to make Sam unwind completely and it's eerie, uncanny, and so fucking good. Sam grinds down reflexively, shaking from the blinding rush of pleasure, and thrusts down again when Tron's hips buck up against him. The weight of Tron's hand on the small of his back, on his ass, is a constant presence as the program encourages him to keep moving, and it becomes a rhythm, push and pull as the pressure builds and builds. The air is heavy with static and ozone, prickling bare skin and his lips, and he feels rather than hears the loud whirring hum vibrating through him.

Sam mouths at the side of Tron's neck, scraping his teeth along the taut line and provoking a deep growl; Tron jerks against him, fingers digging on the circuits on his hip as he breaks the rhythm. The world abruptly tilts, goes sideways, and Sam's on his back, breathing hard and staring up at deep violet circuits while the program settles against him. There's something dangerous and thrilling about the way Tron's looking at him, eyes dark and focused on Sam and Sam alone. It makes his heart race, makes his body flush and throb with need.

"Come on," Sam says, curling his leg over Tron's hip and pulling him down. "Show me what you got."

Tron obliges with a kiss and a thrust, sliding into his mouth and along his body. Sam presses up against him, sucking on his tongue as he rakes a hand through the program's hair and strokes the short circuit at the back of his neck. Tron rumbles loudly and grinds down hard, doesn't wait for Sam to respond before thrusting again and again. He's relentless, moving his body surely and with such inhuman grace, never breaking rhythm for even a second; it's all Sam can do to keep up, dragging his hand along the program's side onto his back for leverage as he rolls his hips up and loses himself to the friction, to the electric thrum through his circuits and under his skin. His other hand slides down, fingertips on the undulating curve of Tron's spine, and rub against the circuit low on his hip. There's a stutter in the push and pull, a harsh broken noise and a sharp intake of breath as Tron bucks under the touch and his circuits flare like fireworks.

It's like Sam's straddling lightning, with Tron radiating so much heat and unadulterated energy. He wants it, craves it, reaches up blindly to wrap his hand around the back of Tron's neck and pull him down to crush their mouths together and taste it. It's a bruising kiss; Tron is merciless with his tongue, thrusting in and stroking every inch of his mouth. He tastes hot and sweet, bitter and addicting, and Sam doesn't ever want to let go. He bites on Tron's bottom lip when the program pulls back and a growl drowns out his ragged breaths as Tron thrusts against him, pushing him higher and stretching his nerves until they're voxel-thin.

Something seems to cross Tron's mind; he bows his head as if to do something to Sam's neck but stops and instead pushes himself off Sam. The most pathetic sound comes out of his throat as Sam tries to pull the program back down on him; it almost hurts not having Tron against him, hot and thrumming and _here_. His breath hitches when Tron grabs his wrists and presses them down on the bed above his head, and even the program looks surprised by it.

"Are you-" And _shit_, just hearing Tron talk in that sex-rough, breathy voice is doing things to him. Sam squirms, pushes at the back of Tron's leg with the heel of his foot to bring him back down; Tron rocks against him but it's a light, teasing slide and it almost hurts being left like this, aching and desperate for release. "Sam, are you-"

He knows exactly what Tron's asking and flexes his hands, feels Tron's grip on his wrists relax. "I'm fine. Didn't expect it, though."

Tension leaves Tron's body as he lowers his head to Sam's right shoulder; he breathes over the circuit and Sam moves helplessly against the hands on his wrists, digging his heel into the bed as he shivers from the tantalizing promise of pleasure. He can almost feel the program's lips move as Tron says, "I don't remember adapting…like this."

"Like what?"

Tron's response is to cover Sam's wrists with one hand and slide the other down his chest, caressing the circuit line with the back of his fingers, and Sam arches up at the electrifying rush, swearing something incoherent as he feels himself unwind. Gasping he opens his eyes and tries to focus on the face above his as a loud, Rinzler-like rumbling fills in the heavy, ozone-tinged air.

_Where the fuck did you learn that? _"Okay, that…that might've been when I…your disk. Shit." His heart is pounding incessantly in his head and his body's thrumming with pent-up energy and need that's got nowhere to go. "Might've transferred something over, like…making shit up-"

Tron cuts him off with a kiss, drawing out a long, low moan. "I know," he says and his voice is deeper, harsher. "Like this."

He lowers himself down, pressing against Sam from chest to hip, and swipes his tongue over the circular node on Sam's shoulder. Their circuitry glows white-hot, heat and pressure bearing down and pushing out; Sam pulls hard against the hand pinning his wrists down, gasping, fingers curling tightly as Tron strokes the circuit again with his tongue. He drags the program's hips down against his, shudders at the slide of their circuits, and thrusts up with a choked cry when Tron grazes the circuit line with teeth. He's not the only one affected; Tron moans, grinds down and then again, trembling and on edge. His grip on Sam's wrists loosens and Sam wriggles out his right hand, presses it against Tron's side and slides up his back to curve on the slope of his shoulder blade. His palm rubs against the circuit there and a strangled noise interrupts the rumbling as Tron thrusts hard, shaking against his shoulder.

"Sam," the program says in that hoarse voice, and _god_. "_Sam-_" He cuts off with a growl as Sam slides his thumb against the circuit on his back.

Circuits thrum and burn brighter and brighter as the pressure builds to some incomprehensible level. Sam knows he's close; he's stretched too thin, every inch of his body on edge and focusing on the electric heat sliding against him. He feels Tron slowly lose control, every move stuttering and stricken with want, and suddenly he needs to see Tron wrecked and undone, needs to see him come. The lights are too bright, though, and the roar in his head is deafening; heavy heat is uncoiling in his chest and he's starting to see stars with every erratic thrust of his hips and every hard press of Tron's fingers on his circuits.

It's almost enough and he's _right_ there, and then Tron bows his head, presses his mouth to the circuit line on Sam's sternum right as he rocks his hips up against the program's; the friction and the surge of lightning through his circuits are too much, are just enough, and Sam's _gone_. He arches up as hot-cold pleasure seizes his body and overrides his mind, cries out as everything goes white.

Sam sinks back down on the bed, shaking and hypersensitive, gasping and keening as aftershocks wrack his body. He hisses as Tron slowly lifts himself up, feels the bed shift ever so slightly and the hum vibrate through the sweltering air. He doesn't think he'll ever come down from the high.

When he finally opens his eyes it's to see Tron kneeling over him, a trembling arm braced against the wall. He looks as exhausted as Sam feels, but he's smiling and it's weightless, free of burden. The irises of his eyes seem backlit, shining in myriad shades of brilliant grays and blues, and his hair is tousled and he just seems to glow everywhere. Sam lifts a trembling hand up and caresses his face, curves his hand to the shape of Tron's jaw line and rubs the pad of his thumb slowly over the swollen bottom lip. Tron closes his eyes and shivers at the touch, rumbles softly and presses into the palm of his hand.

"Hey," Sam whispers, or thinks he does; he doesn't think he has enough strength to form the one word.

Tron sounds just as gone as he says, "Hello, Sam."

With a deep sigh he drops his arm and Tron slides his hand down the wall, lowers himself down next to Sam. He's still running hot and it draws Sam in; he turns on his side and curls up next to him, pressing his forehead to Tron's chest right next to the blinking blue circuits. Sleep sinks in as he slides his hand across the short inches between them and strokes one of the blue squares; he feels Tron rumble at the brief touch as the program draws in around him, wrapping a protective arm around his back right under his disk and pulling him even closer.

Sam closes his eyes, smiles and listens to the soft whirring hum as he drifts off to sleep.

* * *

><p>The warmth is what Sam notices first. His fingers twitch against a soft surface and he furrows his eyebrows as he slowly wakes up, wanting to go back and dream of electric sheep. He's not interested in rousing himself when he can't remember the last time he was able to relax and ignore the demanding world. The warmth is comforting and he wants to slide closer to it, let it lull him back to sleep, but something holds him back. It's the strangeness of the warmth, the unfamiliarity of the presence next to him, carding fingers through his hair-<p>

It hits him so suddenly that he tenses up, breath caught in his chest. Between one loud heartbeat and the next the fog of sleep clears out of his head and he realizes that he's on the Grid, curled up on his side next to Tron in a small room somewhere in the city. The memories start crowding each other out, makes his skin crawl and his chest tighten with anxiety as he becomes painfully aware of the program's presence. He needs to run, needs to escape the paralyzing fear spreading through his body, needs to get the hell away before he fucks it up; his fingers dig into the sheets underneath as his heart palpitates and he tries to form awkward words in his head. The rest of his mind catches up in time to realize what he's doing and clamps down, forces him to stay still.

What is wrong with him? He's done things without a second thought, done a lot of stupid things to make a statement or just to see what'll happen – it's what first got him onto the Grid, after all – so why is waking up next to someone pushing him towards a panic attack?

_Tron._

The bed shifts and he freezes, holds his breath and waits for something to happen. Then he feels heat hovering over him, a gloved finger tracing the curve of his jaw; as he shivers and draws his knees up to his chest Tron whispers his name like he's committing it to memory.

"Sam."

The voice draws him out of his anxiety-wracked shell and he opens his eyes, blinks at the blue circuits glowing just inches from his face before slowly tilting his head up. Tron is on his side, leaning on his arm and watching Sam with a blue-gray gaze that's both warm and guarded. It's a front, Sam thinks automatically; there are already cracks in the carefully composed façade, an aching weariness in the practiced curve of his mouth. He's resigned to the worst, to Sam saying that this-that _they_are a mistake, and he's come to that conclusion because Sam's acting like it is.

An entirely different kind of panic takes hold of Sam as his heart pounds in his head, the kind that tells him that he absolutely can_not _lose Tron.

_Not you. No. No, no, no, no, no._

He sits up so fast that he almost collapses back on the bed from the violent sway of vertigo; he presses his hands to his head and squeezes his eyes shut, waits for the world to stop tilting in every direction. A hand on his shoulder steadies him and he focuses on the warm solid weight to center himself while the light-headed rush drains away. He takes a shuddering breath after another, trying to relieve the pressure in his chest, but the heavy cold knot won't loosen and disappear.

And all the while Tron is a quiet reassuring presence, offering support over the smallest human thing even when he's expecting the worst from Sam, and it's just too much.

_Why me?_ he thinks bitterly. _I can't-I'm not cut out for this, so why did you choose me?_

He finally looks up when Tron lets go of his shoulder. The program is still here. He hasn't said anything else, hasn't given any indication that whatever Sam did offended him. He's just…waiting for an explanation. He's giving Sam a chance.

So Sam takes it, because he can't let Tron think otherwise about him.

"Look," he says. "This isn't…I'm not-" He wavers, voice cracking, and he swallows hard, tries again. "I wasn't…around a lot of people, growing up. I was always by myself. Always thought I'd be by myself."

He rubs at the side of his foot with a nervous finger, doesn't dare look at Tron again for fear he wouldn't be able to continue. The tension roils and he feels sick.

"I don't do this. Never did. It's not that you're the…you're not the first, but." Deep breath, because the walls are closing in on him, crushing him. "You're the one I care about. You're the one I don't want to screw it up with. After everything you've been through I can't…. I'm not okay, but you know that. Don't you?"

He stops again. Talking about himself like _this_ to _Tron _is like flaying himself alive, peeling back the layers he pulled on over the years to protect himself from people who could hurt him, and from people he could hurt.

He can barely hear himself say, "I've never done this. Never. I just need time."

It's while he's waiting, dreading what the program will say that he realizes that for all his doubts and fears about himself, about the kind of damage he could inflict on others, he wants to be where Tron is. Nothing's changed since they were in the Outlands and he was outracing deresolution, nothing's changed since the I/O tower and when he approached Tron in the club hours ago.

_I screwed up. I'm sorry. But I'm trying. I'm trying, please understand me._

The longer Tron doesn't respond the more the fear takes hold. Sam's paralyzed, unable to bring himself to move or blink or even breathe. This is the most vulnerable he's been since the night he found the Grid and watched his father sacrifice himself to save him, and now he's faced with the same painful helplessness that he swore to never feel again. He's laid out all his cards and all he can do is wait for Tron to say something, anything.

Something touches the inside of his left arm and he glances down, watches Tron slide the flat of his hand down over his wrist and lace their fingers together. Warmth flows up from every point of contact, a soothing thrum making his circuits glow soft white. The paralyzing chill dissipates, the knot in his chest loosens, and Sam _breathes_.

"I don't know where we're going either," Tron says quietly, and Sam lifts his head, looks at the small, uncertain smile that always goes straight to his heart. "But I think that's okay."

The relief is so overwhelming that all Sam can do is smile back, bow his head and lean against Tron's shoulder. "This is crazy."

"Is it?" Tron asks and the warmth of his amused tone curls around them.

"Yeah."

Tron squeezes his hand and moves ever so slightly to press a kiss to the top of his head. Sam sighs as the program slides fingers down the side of his face, lets him tilt his head off the shoulder and up to kiss him. His lips brush over Sam's, a fuzzy and warm sensation much like static; Sam licks at his mouth, hums as Tron strokes his jaw with his thumb, and then wraps his free hand around the back of the program's neck and pulls him down.

There's hushed laughter, Tron pressing his forehead to Sam's; he's running hot again, sinuates himself between Sam's legs and hooks their ankles together. Sam slides his hand up the program's neck, tangling his fingers in dark tousled hair, and tilts his head up to press another kiss. Tron responds with a pleased, deep rumble as he slides his tongue inside and relearns the shape of his mouth.

"So we're good?" Sam murmurs when he pulls back.

Tron nods and it's the only answer he needs.

_We're okay. Everything's going to be okay._

* * *

><p>Sam opens his eyes. He stares up at the bluish glow on the ceiling and then tilts his head to his left, watches Tron sleep. His gaze sweeps over the peaceful expression on the program's face and he slowly, carefully raises his hand to brush aside the stray strands of hair. He then tilts his head the other way and looks out at the city through the transparent wall.<p>

A bright star is shining over the silhouettes and the scattered lights of TRON City. A chill washes over him as he slowly maneuvers himself out from under Tron, sits up, and slides to the edge of the bed. He runs a hand through his hair, breathes out, and stands up.

The sleep sheds from him as he walks through the barrier out onto the balcony. Sam leans on the translucent rail and stares at the beacon of light, tries to ignore the apprehension rising up in the back of his throat. He bows his head and then looks over his shoulder at Tron, who's awake and watching him. Sam turns back to the star in the sky and starts counting down the time.

The portal is open.


	13. 13

**We Are Pilots**

**13**

The hangar is home to only one Recognizer and it's broken. Its windows are smashed and one of its legs had been snapped in two yet it's still standing upright in a corner of the structure, a cold silent reminder of Clu's legacy. Sam stops momentarily to look at the darkened circuits but Tron doesn't so much as tilt his head in its direction as he walks towards a door at the back.

Boldly contrasting the fragment of the old system is the light runner parked next to its good leg, glowing pleasantly yellow.

Before they reach the door it slides open and a green-lit program steps out. His eyes are glued to the data pad in his hands and doesn't watch where he's going, ends up veering to his left towards Tron. Tron stops him with a hand on his shoulder and that's when the program looks up, blinking rapidly while a scowl starts forming; he then glances down at the circuits on Tron's sternum and over his shoulder at Sam, and his expression shifts effortlessly into shock.

He lets Tron push him back onto his path and cranes his neck to watch the security program walk by. Sam raises an eyebrow at the star-struck look on the program's face, then at Tron, and decides that he'd be in awe, too - for a very different reason. He claps the program on the shoulder and the program jumps at the touch, looks at him with wide eyes that only grow wider after a brief glance at the white circuits.

"Awesome, isn't he?" Sam says and the program mutely nods.

Another pat on the shoulder, a wave, and then he's jogging over to Tron before the door slides shut. Tron's face is a blank slate, something he's _very _good at, but the abnormally bright glow of his circuitry is a dead giveaway. Sam grins, bumps his shoulder, and says, "What? You are."

Tron fidgets, which is new, and nods at the short hallway in front of them. "It's this way."

To their right is an elevator shaft and the hallway is lined with narrow backlit panels lighting the way to another door. Sam starts looking around the stark place, half-expecting something to surprise him considering the program who took up residence here. "Interesting place to live."

"It's inconspicuous and close to the center of the city," Tron says. "You don't get where you are by staying away from everything."

"You think a Recognizer hanger is _inconspicuous_?" The building's distinctly shaped to house several Recognizers, which also requires it to take up an entire city block.

"Nobody likes what the Recognizers were used for." Tron slows down as they approach the closed door. "We try to avoid these storage spaces when we can."

Instead of sliding open as Sam expects it simply derezzes, revealing a large bare room. The wall on one side is covered in screens and control panels; the other side contains an assortment of off-white couches, empty weapons racks, and a glass coffee table. A long onyx table straddles the middle and the wall right across from Sam is marked with slivers of light.

Enyo is leaning on the table, studying a data pad; next to her hand is a pile of disks, batons, and hexagonal data cards. She doesn't look up even though the door rezzes back into place loudly, doesn't even seem to be aware that they're here. Sam's not putting it past her, though, and a moment later she proves him right; she glances up while sliding a finger horizontally across the data pad, scrolling through what looks like simplified code, and the uncharacteristically stern look sheds in favor of a familiar smile and wagging eyebrows that remind him of a certain late night television host.

"So," she begins. "Heard you two put on quite a light show a millicycle ago."

Sam trips on his feet and Tron immediately reaches out to steady him. "_What?_"

"Had Crystal send over a couple programs who wanted to chat, and they started talking about something going on at her club. Not that I'm asking for details. You can keep them to yourselves. Besides," she adds, jerking a thumb at the couches, "that's not why you're here."

Her eyes slide over to Tron and then back to Sam, and the corner of her mouth turns up in a knowing smirk. He flushes, mortified that they were _that_ obvious and that word spread _that_ quickly. But who's he kidding? Who _didn't _notice the bright white circuits on the wall?

When he brings his attention back to her she's walking over to the collection of couches; she flops in an armchair across from the couch, data pad dangling from her hand, and tilts her head back over the armrest to look at them upside down. "Shall we?"

She straightens herself and places her data pad on the table as he slowly walks around the glass coffee table and sits down; Tron follows him silently, a warm steady presence at his back, and remains standing, watching as he unhooks his disk from its dock and holds it out. Enyo watches intently as Sam pulls up the display and flicks through the disorganized memories until he finds the files he extracted from the safe house.

"That's the Grid," she says as he brings up a holographic representation of one of Flynn's blueprints.

"Dad's old plans for it," he clarifies while Tron finally sits down on the couch next to him and stares at the rotating hologram. "Already gave Tron a copy but I'm copying one over to you, too. Need both of you to figure out what's relevant and what's not, how much Clu's system deviated from it. I'll see what improvements I can make on these after I...leave."

Enyo nods. All traces of humor are gone from her face; she studies the blueprint with hard brown eyes as she taps a finger on her chin. "What else?"

Sam minimizes the hologram and sets the glowing white disk on the table. He shifts his balance to the elbow on his knee and rubs his face, fingertips on his temples. "I need you to bring all the sectors back together, which should be fun. I know this system isn't running at full capacity-"

"We lack a sysadmin," Enyo interrupts.

Sam feels Tron shift uneasily and quietly say, "Or several."

"Several? Is that even possible?"

He feels Tron's eyes on him, waiting for him to clarify. While the plan they came up with two hours earlier is mostly theoretical - since when did a computer run smoothly on a decentralized system? - it's currently the only alternative to the known model, which is that of a User as a sysadmin constantly attending to the system's demands and needs. Sam lowers his hand from his face and looks up at Enyo. "I can't be in here all the time, so I'm granting you and Tron some privileges. It should be enough to help you keep the Grid going while I figure things out on the other side."

It's funny, talking about his imminent departure so nonchalantly. Saying it out loud doesn't make it any more real than when he first saw the star in the sky. The Grid isn't home to him but after everything that happened here he just doesn't want to leave.

He feels the weight of their gaze on his shoulders and sighs, adds, "I also need a list of missing programs and utilities. Have to know what Q and I need to write and port in to make the city functional again. I don't know how soon I'll be back. You think you can handle it while I'm gone?"

He projects his question to Enyo since he already know Tron's answer but he tilts his head towards Tron anyway. The program nods a half-second after Enyo answers in the affirmative and Sam feels some of the tension in his chest give way. He then turns to Enyo and gestures with his right hand. "Give me your disk."

"What for?"

"One, I need to copy over Dad's plans. Two, I think you'll find it a lot easier getting things done if you know how to write shortcuts."

That's all the reason Enyo needs to hand over her Light Disc. "Shortcuts, huh? How exciting."

He chuckles as he sets it on his knees and pulls up her code. Like Tron's it's old and written in a different hand than Flynn's; his father's touch is minimal and, as Sam goes deeper into her programming, he can see why. Whoever wrote her - Julia-59, Enyo had said, and Sam makes a mental note to look through ENCOM's archives - did an incredible job writing an adaptable program that can root out any information a User needs. He starts compiling more notes in his head as he writes in code granting her some User privileges - Enyo's User was quite innovative and the basics of her digital makeup can be used to write similarly adaptable programs for the modern day.

Activating his disk, Sam brings up his father's files; with a flick of his fingers he creates a copy and carries it across the short distance between the two displays, merging it into Enyo's code. The display pulses bright yellow for a few seconds as it takes in the new information and once the glow dims to something he can stare at Sam resumes writing the necessary lines of code. At one point he glances up and grins at the wide-eyed wonder in Enyo's face.

It's the complete opposite of Tron's intense scrutiny when Sam copied over the same files and wrote in many of the same lines of code back at the apartment a few hours ago. Sam had made sure he saw everything, explained what kind of modifications he was making to the data makeup, and managed to refrain himself from quietly flicking away the broken remnants of corrupt code. He did make another offer to clear out the rest of Clu's handiwork but Tron seemed far more interested in derailing his train of thought with well-placed strokes on his circuits, and Sam let it drop. At the very least Tron consented to letting Sam work with his code, meaning whatever upgrades he'll make in the future will eventually render Clu's code obsolete.

_The future._ It freaks him out whenever he thinks about it - about his commitment to the Grid and to Tron. The responsibility weighs heavily on his shoulders and his mind; he has so much to prove, so much to show to _them _that he can do this, that he won't just disappear and let everything collapse.

Something nudges him, makes him come back to himself just in time to stop from knocking a line of code out of place. Sam blinks at the display, and then looks up at Enyo, hoping she didn't see his near slip. He senses Tron inch closer to his side, hip and shoulder bumping up against his; the humming warmth of his presence anchors him, lets him relax and focus on his work.

A quick scan assures him that everything's in place and he minimizes the display, hands the disk back to Enyo. She takes it carefully, almost reverently, and studies the blinking light on the disk's inner circuit. She looks up at him, then at Tron, and locks it back on her dock. She suddenly stiffens and her pupils flicker, glowing yellow for the seconds it takes for the upgrades to take hold.

"Wow," she breathes out, rubbing her fingers together and watching her circuits pulse gold for several seconds more. "Now that's something."

Tron smiles, says, "You get used to it."

"Bet he does more than that to you."

Sam groans and slumps against the couch, covers his face in a futile attempt to hide the flush working up his face and through his circuitry. "You're really gonna go there?"

"I could, but I'm nice so I won't," she says. She jumps to her feet and grabs something behind a loveseat that looks like it was dragged into this room from somewhere else. "By the way, you left this."

She tosses something at him and he catches it before he remembers that he left his father's jacket in her light runner. Shit, how could he have forgotten this? He slides his fingers over the smooth leather, kicking himself mentally for forgetting one of the last things that belonged to Flynn.

"I remember it was his," she says softly, reminiscing. "Figured you didn't want to leave it behind. Come on; you need to get to the portal and I need to babysit those MP3s for a cycle."

"Why? What about Crystal?" Sam asks as he stands up.

"Yssandra and Nyx run the other neutral sector," she says as she leads the way out of the room, "and Crystal's gone to talk to them about you."

"Who?"

"Her sisters. Unifying the city won't be easy; plenty of programs think they can run the Grid on their own, like that idiot Octane. Just because he escaped the Rectifier and overcame his rectification he thinks he should rule the Grid. Ha!"

Sam starts at the name and then glances at Tron, who says, "I'll look into it."

In the shadow of the broken Recognizer Enyo crouches down and plants the flat of her hand on the floor. Lines of code appear underneath, glowing yellow-white as they weave into a display she can work from. It's different from what Sam sees when he accesses the Grid's code; her access is restricted and her ability limited to writing shortcuts, but from the look on her face he can tell she's incredibly pleased with what she _can _do.

"This makes my job so much easier," she says as she inputs coordinates. She sits back on her heels to watch circuits form a manhole cover and then looks up at Sam. "Thank you."

"No problem." He looks over his shoulder at the waiting light runner. Tron's already at its side but he hasn't climbed in yet; he's leaning against it, watching them while the vehicle's circuits turn blue. "Tell the others I'll see them later."

"Of course," she says as she lifts the manhole cover and peers down into the tunnel. "Good luck on the other side. And tell Quorra...tell her we say hello, and that she could come visit sometime."

He starts. "I never even mentioned her-right, you know everything."

"That I do," she agrees as she climbs down the rungs. When only her head is visible she says, "Oh, and watch out for gridbugs."

Sam knows he's heard that name before, but, "Gridbugs?"

* * *

><p>"Gridbugs," Tron says as the light runner swerves around a thick glowing swarm that's slowly devouring an empty structure in the remnants of another ISO colony. "They've always been a problem, both in the old system and in this one."<p>

"What, so they manifest when something goes wrong?"

"Here they usually manifest when Flynn tries to manipulate the Grid's code."

Sam watches the structure collapse under the weight of the gridbugs. "Huh. So how do you deal with them?"

"Containment," Tron says while the swarm starts following them. "And deletion."

He presses a button on the console and the light runner spits out a pair of blinking bombs. Sam turns in his seat to watch them bounce across the terrain into the path of the swarm, which envelops them.

"Aren't they just gonna eat the-"

The light runner abruptly spurts ahead and Sam scrambles to stay in his seat as the vehicle rapidly puts distance between them and the gridbugs. A second later the bombs explode, wiping out the gridbugs in a wave of light and force. The canyon wall collapses, crushing the surviving bugs.

"Right," Sam says faintly as he turns back around. "Gridbugs. Add that to my to-do list."

_Along with building a road from the city to the portal_, he adds to himself as Tron weaves the light runner through the maze of canyons and ravines towards the bright star in the sky. It's rougher going than the journey to the safe house, and the gridbugs are a very unpleasant addition to the abandoned colonies they keep coming across.

"So why aren't we flying?" Sam says with a very pointed look at the baton attached to Tron's leg.

"Even if there are functional Recognizers do you want to fly one?" Tron asks. "It also takes over point one-five millicycles to fly from the city to the portal; I don't think you want to fly a light-jet for that long."

Sam thinks about it for one second. "Right."

But every time they come across an abandoned ISO refuge and the light runner suddenly speeds up Sam wishes they had taken to the skies; he doesn't say anything - because what can he say to make everything better when he can't? - and just clenches his hands tightly, bites his tongue and looks everywhere but at Tron until the last ghostly relic is far behind them. Even then he only allows himself a brief glance and every time he pretends not to see the tension in the program's face, the tight grip on the light runner's handle.

It's the horrors Tron endured that makes Sam want to stay; he doesn't want to leave the program alone to face everything by himself. Sam can't make the same mistakes his father did, though. He can't lose touch with the world he lives in; he can't abandon Quorra and Alan-_especially _Alan, who'd struggled for so long with both the company and Sam after Flynn disappeared. In the past six months Alan's been the happiest Sam's ever seen him, and he can't break his godfather's heart again, not like this.

And now that he's thinking about Alan he can't help but also think about the one glaring quirk of this virtual reality. Great. Because what he really wants to think about is why of all the people in the world it just had to be the decades-younger version of his godfather and his father's friend. For some reason this compels him to glance at the program again - because his brain hates him - but other than the obligatory resemblance there's nothing remotely _Alan _about Tron, nothing in the way he carries himself or the way his eyes flick to Sam.

"What?"

Sam smiles and shakes his head at his idiocy, slumps in his seat and tilts his head to his right to stare out at the craggy canyon walls. "Nothing."

Time passes before the star no longer is a star but a beam of light piercing the clouds. The heavens open up as the canyons and rock formations slowly give way, paving a crude road of rough terrain to a glimmering horizon.

_The Sea of Simulation_, his mind supplies in Quorra's slurred voice. They had gotten drunk on homemade mojitos and shots of tequila, a decision they both regretted the next morning. At some point during the night they got to talking about the Grid before Clu's betrayal and she slowly told him how she came from the Sea while shredding bruised mint leaves. It was the only thing he remembered from their meandering drunken conversation.

She might have said something else, now that he's really thinking about it, something about why ISOs stopped walking out of the Sea. She looked so miserable that he couldn't ask what happened, and after that night he forgot all about it. Now, with the endless ocean in front of him, the question comes to the forefront and he opens his mouth to ask Tron-he clamps down, thinks that maybe he'll save it for another time.

He follows the line of light to its source, hovering above the rippling surface. "So how did Dad reach the portal? Did he fly?"

"There used to be a bridge. It was the only stable structure out here, but he destroyed it when programs started wandering too close to it."

"So he used a light jet."

Tron nods. A fond smile graces his face as he says, "His baton contained the prototype. I flew it a couple times. It was interesting."

Of course Sam's only experiences with light jets involved him being shot at and crashing said jets into hard surfaces. He huffs a laugh and looks down at the leather jacket in his lap. "I bet."

The rocky terrain becomes smooth with the transition to a beach that seems as endless and eternal as the Sea. The horizon shimmers with the light's reflection, unobstructed by the massive stone pillars that Sam remembers weaving through during the desperate race to the portal. The platform hovers above the surface miles out from the shore, a ghostly apparition like the freighters he'd see on the Pacific's horizon line from the edge of the Santa Monica Pier.

The light runner comes to a stop several feet from the lapping water; chunks of slow-crumbling data in the form of broken stone are strewn all over the beach and the sheer cliff walls behind them seem to stretch out into infinity. The light runner's blue circuits cast an eerie glow and Sam feels like they're intruding on something haunted and sacred.

Out here he realizes how loud TRON City is, even with the empty sectors and darkened structures. Now, in the heart of the Outlands he feels the resounding silence where there should be a thrumming undercurrent of energy intertwined in the Grid's programming. Here, on the shores of the Sea, there's nothing but a vast emptiness filled only by the rhythmic hush of the waves and the hum of the light runner. The Sea of Simulation is pristine and eerily quiet, untouched and undisturbed by everything that's transpired deep in the inlands for thousands of cycles.

He feels like an intruder.

Sam slides forward to the edge of his seat and tilts his head up, follows the beam of light up into the sky. He then looks at the platform, can picture the nightmare that had unfolded on it - his father tricking Clu and drawing him away from Sam and Quorra to give them a chance to escape, the moment they reintegrated as one pulse of the activated portal dragged him out of virtual reality and a second spit him out on the floor of the arcade's basement. _Here_ is where the life as he knew it ended. _Here _is where all their lives ended - where Tron overrode the corrupt code and crashed into the Sea, where Quorra left the Grid for the human world, where Flynn and Clu reintegrated and ended the old system, where Sam's lifelong hunt for his father ended.

"They found me here."

Tron's staring straight ahead at the surface of the water, hand loose on the light runner's handle while the other rests on his knee.

"Who?"

"Programs. They came here, looking for Clu. For Flynn. For anything that'll tell them what happened, and they found me. I didn't have my disk so they couldn't identify me." Tron stops and takes a deep breath; his circuits flicker while fingers curl over his kneecap. "Eventually I woke up and walked back to the city. I haven't been here since."

_How long did that take? _is the first question to pop into Sam's mind. What he asks is, "How'd you get your disk back?"

The program smiles wryly. "Someone found it and brought it to Zuse. I had to fight his bodyguards to get it back." He bows and shakes his head, lost in the memory. "It was a one-sided match."

"I bet," Sam says.

Tron looks at him, holds the gaze for a few seconds, and then breaks it to study a pile of rubble several yards away. Sam sighs and glances down at the leather jacket, feels a heavy weight settle in his chest. The silence stretches as anxiety takes hold and expands in the space between them, prickling right under his skin. They're stalling; the portal burns brightly out of the corner of his eye, telling him it's time to go, but he can't bring himself to release the vehicle's hatch and get out. He thinks of talking instead, filling in the emptiness with emptier words, but he can't come up with anything to say. He can't think, can't breathe, feels his heart pound louder and harder as precious time dwindles away.

It's Tron who finally says something. "We should go. She's waiting for you."

He moves his hand over the console to release the hatch and Sam reacts without thinking, grabs the program's wrist and stops him. Tron starts and looks at him, says, "What are you-"

Sam shoves the jacket off his lap into the footwell and, in one practiced motion, lets go of Tron's arm and climbs over the center console; his disk hits the glass top, then his head as he slides onto the program's lap. He grips the rounded edge of the headrest and looks down at Tron, noting the sudden glow in the blue-gray irises and the purple flush of his circuits; he breathes in sharply when Tron reflexively places his hands on his hips, a warm weight grounding him in this place, in this moment. He licks his lip as he looks up at Tron and sees the edge of despair mirrored back at him. Then the program leans forward and kisses him, and he can't breathe at all.

He opens his mouth without hesitation, lets Tron in; he lets go of the seat to cup the program's face, thumbs stroking his jaw and coaxing him to press in further. Tron rumbles at the encouragement, tongue slick and hot as it sweeps around the inside of Sam's mouth. He slides his hand over Sam's left hip to the small of his back and drags him closer; Sam's knees press up against the back of the seat and his right elbow bump against the light runner's side. His back starts aching as he tries not to bang his head or disk against the top of the hatch, but he doesn't try to find a better position.

There's not enough space to do this and he feels it in Tron's constant shifting, in the frustrating need to stretch his limbs and relieve the pressure on his knees, but the discomfort is only secondary to the drive and the need to be as close to Tron as physically possible. In a way the cramped space keeps him closer to Tron and lets him curl up on Tron's lap, hips and chests pressing as he mouths at the program's neck.

The air swells with heat as Tron keens, jerks against him and drags fingertips up the circuit on Sam's back. Hot pleasure flushes through his body, fades in tantalizing echoes as Sam presses his forehead to Tron's shoulder, gasping and trembling.

"Fuck," he chokes out. "Oh god."

Even with his eyes closed he can see the bright violet glow; he opens them and stares at the throbbing circuits on Tron's chest, bows his head to kiss them. He slides the flat of his tongue over a circuit and Tron hisses, digs fingertips into his hip and back. Sam tenses, rocks against him while sliding a hand down the program's arm; he curves the other around the back of Tron's neck and tilts his head to the side to graze teeth over the taut line of his exposed neck.

"Sam," Tron whispers and his voice is broken, harsh and needy.

Sam lifts his head and kisses Tron deeply, sliding his hand up and burying his fingers in dark hair as he curls his tongue around Tron's. The program moans and pulls him even closer, arms wrapping around him possessively. Sam responds with a slow grind, pressing down on Tron's circuits; a loud whir starts up as Tron moves against him, bouncing off the curving walls and vibrating under his skin. Sam thinks about taking it slow, savoring every second and delaying the inevitable, but Tron has other ideas; the program presses down on his circuits, skims the white lines with the back of his hands, and ignites his senses. Sam swears against his mouth, groans as he thrust down hard; his body thrums with the burn and aches when Tron stops stroking the circuits, throbbing for more friction, more stimulation, more _anything_.

"C'mon," he says, arching forward and up. He laces his fingers around the back of Tron's neck, tilting his head up, and rocks forward against him. Thrill races up his spine at the look on Tron's face, the darkened eyes and tousled hair and skin cast in a blue-violet hue. Sam bows his head down to brush his lips against the program's open mouth, whispers, "_C'mon, Tron_."

Time ticks in the back of his mind and if he tilts his head just so he can catch a glimpse of the portal's bright light out of the corner of his eye. Sam squeezes his eyes shut, shoves it all away and focuses on the biting kiss, on the hands sliding down his back and jerking him forward, on the electric rush through his circuits. He gasps for air but Tron shocks it back out with teeth on his neck and an upward roll of his hips. Sam responds in like, starts an increasingly frantic, irregular rhythm somewhat hampered by the light runner's odd angles; it's cramped and awkward as hell but it feels incredible.

Nerves fray with every second of contact, with the friction of circuit sliding on circuit and the hot-cold rush. Their tongues tangle and teeth clack against each other as they try to fit their mouths to each other; Tron's even more bruising with the kiss, almost like he's trying to merge them together, and Sam relishes the sharp seconds of pain, the possessive strength of the tongue delving deeper and deeper into his mouth. His lungs burn - his whole body burns - and he tears himself away to drag in air, shudders and hitches as Tron curls his fingers and drags them along the circuitry down his back and around his sides. Electric heat rockets through him and he reflexively grinds down against the program, swearing as his last coherent thoughts burn away.

Tron is coming apart under him. His hands grip Sam's hips in a vice-grip and his back arches when Sam presses his fingers against the purple circuits on his chest. A hoarse monosyllabic sound escapes into the thickly charged air as Sam twists and pushes against the program, trying to make him come first. Pressure and need skyrockets as he desperately tries to hold on for just a bit longer than Tron, taking a few agonizing seconds between movements to calm himself down but the seconds whittle down as the buildup of friction swells in his circuits.

It happens in a breathless rush, Tron throwing his head back, eyes wide and unseeing, and crying out while his circuits flare purple-white. Not a second later Sam buries his face in the crook of Tron's neck, pushes down against the trembling program, and comes with a sobbing gasp as the heady electric rush of pleasure overwhelms him.

Breathing shakily Sam collapses against Tron, forehead pressed against the program's shoulder and trembling hands sliding down his tense arms. Aftershocks rack his body and his circuits throb and burn while his detached mind floats in a warm haze; he doesn't want to come down from the high, wants to stay right here in this cramped space with Tron and the endless Sea at his back. As his heartbeat slows he feels Tron trace patterns on his back, fingertips following the curve of his shoulder blades and skimming lightly over too-sensitive circuits; the program curls his other hand against the back of Sam's neck, stroking his hair. Sam shivers as his back curves to the touch and for a surreal second he sees himself as a very large, very pleased cat. Tron's the one that's purring, though, a pleased rumbling working its way under Sam's skin; he thinks that he wouldn't mind waking up to it day after day and the extremely uncharacteristic thought jumpstarts his brain. The shiver that works down his body is suddenly full of dread.

Sam lifts his head and brushes his mouth against Tron's neck, tasting static. "Don't want to go."

The purring is several decibels louder and the hands on his body tense, pull him close, but Tron's voice is as steady as ever. "I know."

Sam presses open-mouthed kisses up the program's neck and down the curve of his jaw to his mouth. He stares at the parted lips, not quite able to look Tron in the eye. He mumbles, "Have to, though."

Tron tilts his head up, kisses him softly. "I know."

There's the undercurrent of fear in his voice that Sam's been waiting for. He still has no idea what to do about it, because it's one thing to make a promise to come back to save the Grid but another to make a promise to Tron that he'll come back. Going their separate ways, even if it's only temporary, seems like the end of this thing between them and Sam can't have that. He can't leave on that note.

"You know I'm gonna come back, right?"

Hesitance, a slight hitch in Tron's voice. "Yes."

"Hold onto Dad's jacket for me, then."

He's not sure why he just said that. Tron frowns, puzzled. "Sam-"

"I mean it." That jacket may hold all the memories he had of his father before that night two decades ago but Tron matters so much more and to leave it with him... "Keep it." He lets go of Tron's arm and raises it to brush his thumb against the swell of Tron's bottom lip. "I'm gonna come back for that thing, so you'd better have it with you when I see you again."

It's the dumbest, most cliché thing he's ever said in his life. If this were any other time, in any other place with any other person, he'd be cringing and mentally flaying himself alive, but right here, right now, he's just happy when Tron nods and whispers, "Okay."

* * *

><p>Light jets, Sam decides as he tilts the nose of his down towards the Sea, are awesome when they're not being shot out from under him. Lightcycles and the Ducati are amazing but there's no comparison for light jets, for <em>flight<em>. He levels the jet several feet from the rolling surface and skims over it, listens to the wind whistling in his ear and ripping his breath away. He feels weightless yet completely in control, speeding towards a point in the nearing distance with the kind of recklessness he can only dream about back on the other side. He crouches low on the light jet, flicks his eyes up at the blue streak high above him, and then points the light jet's nose up.

For several blissful seconds he almost forgets why he's out here. He loses himself to the heart-pounding thrust and acceleration as he chases after Tron, pretends to forget how different the situation along this stretch of Sea six months ago. There are no obstacles, no jagged towers of barely tamed data creating a formidable wall that the light jets wove through during the desperate chase to the portal. No Rectifiers loom in the far distance, carrying its dangerous cargo to the beam of light; when Sam looks over his shoulder all he sees is the distant shoreline and what he thinks is the light runner's faint blue glow.

The portal floats high above the Sea, shining like a lighthouse guiding Sam home. He slows the light jet as he approaches the long runway to the stairs but almost doesn't catch himself when the jet starts collapsing underneath him. His feet hit solid ground and he staggers forward a few steps while the light jet finishes collapsing back into a baton in his hands. Several feet ahead Tron lands with inhuman grace and tosses the baton up in the air, catches it and smoothly slides it into the holster on the side of his leg.

"Showoff," Sam can't help muttering.

He finds a relic from his previous visit here - a wing tip from the three-man jet Quorra had piloted. He knees down and touches it; the wing tip shatters under his touch and the wind blows the shards off the platform into the sea. He peers over the edge, watching the shimmering cascade of code ride the wind, and turns back when Tron calls his name.

They climb the stairs quietly, looking everywhere but at each other and the pillar of light ahead of them. Sam hesitates for a second before taking that last step to the top and when he looks up from his feet he finds no one standing on the retractable bridge connecting the outer platform to the inner one supporting the portal; he can almost see his father and Clu facing each other on it and he can definitely see Tron moving into his field of vision and very quietly saying, "Sam."

He blinks and the ghosts are gone.

"Yeah," he breathes out. "Yeah."

The wind roars here, swirling around underneath the portal and rushing upward like a tornado or a hurricane. It pushes and pulls at him, alternating between dragging him to the portal and blowing him back. He peers over the side at the roiling waves a hundred feet below, swallows, and forces himself to move. He can feel Tron following him cautiously, carefully maintaining his distance as they near the inner platform.

Sam stops just inches from the maelstrom of wind, light, and power. He suddenly feels lightheaded, feels something ugly twist in his chest, feels his heart throwing itself against his ribcage. He feels Tron standing somewhere behind him, waiting.

Waiting for him to leave the Grid.

Sam turns around to him.

"What are you doin-" Tron begins as he walks back to him.

"Yeah, I know. I'm going," he says thickly around a tongue that's suddenly heavy, with a voice that decided it didn't want to be here. He clenches his hands, glances down at his feet as a thought shoves itself together in his head, and looks up. "Come with me."

Tron frowns. He opens his mouth to say something but something else seems to cross his mind; he tilts his head down and away, making the wind blow his hair the wrong way. Sam's sorely tempted to brush it all back into place but he doesn't think he can touch the program and let go.

"You know I can't," Tron says, and there's no ignoring the steel in his voice, the conviction. "My place is here."

And that goes straight to Sam's heart because in a way he's finally with Tron as he's supposed to be - even if this means that they have to part ways so soon after finding each other.

"I know."

Now Tron just looks confused. "Then why'd you ask?"

Because he wanted to. Because he needed to know. Because _this _is Tron as Sam will remember when he's on the other side. In a way it just makes the idea of being away from him a little more tolerable. Besides, Tron's got Flynn's leather jacket and he does mean to get it back.

Sam shrugs, admits, "I just wanted to know what you'd say.'

The confusion hasn't left his face so Sam claps a hand on his shoulder and says, "Hey, don't worry about it. It's just a question."

Tron nods and Sam lets his hand slide off the program's shoulder. He glances across the Sea to the faint silhouettes of the Outlands and the even fainter glow of the city behind it. Somewhere out there is his father's safe house, the only reason why he even thought about coming back to the Grid. Now he has so many reasons and most of them are named Tron.

He smiles at the thought and then ignores the hoarseness in his voice as he says, "So, guess I'll see you around."

His feet are leaden as he turns and walks to the portal. The roar of the wind is absolutely deafening and he has to squint as he steps into the beam of light. He feels power pulsing, rippling through him as his head and his right arm passes through. Where it gathers so much energy from to power this he doesn't know but it makes him all the more aware of the drain it has on the system inside and out; it makes him wonder, ever so briefly, what it means for his return visits to work on the Grid.

Right before he steps into the center of the portal a hand grabs his upper arm and yanks him back out. Sam stumbles, blinded as he's pulled back through the ring of light, and feels the hand turn him around. Then warm lips close on his, hands curving around his face to hold him in place. Sam anchors his hands on Tron's waist as he parts his lips and lets Tron inside, shivering as Tron carefully memorizes the shape of his mouth. The portal thunders at his back but Tron is so slow, so careful, so attentive, and the dichotomy tears at Sam, makes him clutch at the program and pull him closer. He tries to put to memory everything about Tron - the bittersweet tang of his mouth, the steady strength of his hands, the comforting whirring thrum of his body, the sense and the idea that he will _always _be here.

"I'll see you around," Tron whispers into his mouth, presses a soft kiss, and lets him go.

Sam nods wordlessly, breathless and already aching from his absence; his eyes never leave Tron's as he slowly moves back, step by step, into the light.

The last thing he sees is Tron's smile and then everything goes white.


	14. 14

**We ****Are ****Pilots**

**14**

"-so sorry. I didn't mean to-I was just reading and-and I guess all that work I've been doing last week finally caught up with me, and I fell asleep and..."

Quorra's voice blends into the soft whirring of the servers and becomes a dull disorienting roar in his head. His heart pounds and his skin crawls as the weight of gravity slams into him like a freight train. As soon as the digitizer fully materializes him he slumps forward in the office chair, covers his face with shaking hands, and swallows hard against the rising bile.

"...phone went off and-Sam?"

He doesn't-_can't _hear her walking to his side over the pounding in his ear, but he feels her hand on his shoulder, fingers curling tentatively over its slope, and leans into the touch. The gentle pressure sparks his nerves, setting his senses on fire in the way the Grid never could, and he breathes in sharply. The air tastes stale and earthy and he thinks about installing a better ventilation system down here. Another breath and he tastes the age of this hidden room and all of its secrets.

Slowly he sinks back into his skin as the last echoes of the Grid fade away with each loud heartbeat. The tightness in his chest loosens just a bit and he rolls his shoulders forward; something cracks as Quorra takes her hand away and the sound rings awkwardly in the silence.

"Are you okay?" she finally, hesitantly, asks.

He has a thousand answers to her one question but he doesn't know which one to choose. He's okay - he's found direction in his life at long last. He's not okay - he can't erase the agonized regret in his father's recorded voice. Quorra is free to be whoever she wants to be, but Tron's trapped in the memories of Rinzler and a system that destroyed as much as it built. He finally has what it takes to take off as ENCOM's CEO but the world Flynn built is already calling for him. He's found himself but he's already torn in two.

Quorra prompts him again and he slides his hands off his face, takes a deep breath, and looks up at her.

"I'm fine," he decides to say. When the concern doesn't leave her face he says, "Just give me a minute."

She's not convinced but she nods and steps back.

Sam looks around the room. There's a pile of empty juice boxes on the floor next to the couch and upstairs the jukebox is still rotating hits from the 70s and 80s at an obnoxiously high decibel. Facing him in the lens of the digitizer and behind him-Sam spins the chair around, braces his hands on the edge of the touch screen table, and leans over its surface to read its list of recent activities. Near the bottom of the list is the message he sent from the I/O Tower hours-no, _minutes _ago and the digitizer being activated nine minutes later. The jukebox changes tracks while he stares at the glowing pixels on the screen, then brings up the keyboard and types in the command to shut off the digitizer. The device stops whirring loudly behind him. He then locks the touch screen and the tabletop darkens until only six digits remain to count the time.

_05:07:89_

Quorra appears on his right side. He looks up at her; she's chewing on her bottom lip as her bright eyes flick from the running clock to him and back to the display. Her arms are crossed tightly over her chest and she's shifting her weight from foot to foot. Questions bubble up in her eyes but she hasn't decided which one to put out first so he waits.

"So...what happened?" she asks.

_Everything._

He drops his gaze to stare at his reflection; he looks old, worn out, and so very tired. He closes his eyes and sees Tron's smile disappear behind the portal's white light, clenches his hands tightly and tries to breathe through the constricting pain in his chest. It hurts more than he anticipated and it bleeds into his halting reply.

"A lot happened. It's...it's a long story."

"Oh. Um..." He can hear the cogs and gears turning in her head as she tries to understand and figure out what she's supposed to say. "Do you...do you want to talk about it?"

He does...and he doesn't. He should, he has to, he needs to; everything's changing starting tonight and she of all people needs to know that. She needs to forget whatever Flynn had said about her changing the world, because for all his talk about the Miracle he never actually meant for them to fulfill _his _dreams. Their lives are their own; they don't have to live each day wondering what Flynn meant for them to do anymore.

And yet everything still feels too _raw_, too soon. He just wants to go home, lock the door, and sleep in his bed for a month. He needs time to process everything before he can trust himself to talk.

Time and coffee, actually. He could use a whole pot of it, and a plate of French toast. Eggs. Bacon. Hash browns. A setting that's neither the arcade basement nor the apartment.

"Let's go to Pipers," he says. She raises an eyebrow at him, so he shrugs and adds, "There's a lot to talk about and I could use some coffee."

She makes a show of contemplating it but he knows her answer will always be yes; she can never stay away from the eccentric Koreatown diner. Sure enough she nods, gives him a tentative smile, and turns to start gathering her things. Sam watches her for several long seconds, trying his best to ignore the sudden suffocating sensation in his chest; the smile echoes the one he'd see on Tron's face in the rare moments when the program was content with what he had going for him. It suddenly, strongly reminds Sam of his promise to come back and the uncertainty of _when_.

_"You __know __I'm __gonna __come __back, __right?"  
><em>_  
>"Yes."<br>__  
>"Hold <em>_onto __Dad's __jacket __for __me, __then."  
><em>_  
>"Sam-"<br>__  
>"I <em>_mean __it. __Keep __it. __I'm __gonna __come __back __for __that __thing, __so __you'd __better __have __it __with __you __when __I __see __you __again."  
><em>  
>"Sam?"<p>

He blinks and the stained concrete floor comes into sharp focus. He stares at the black low-heeled boots and tilts his head up to Quorra, who's wearing a frown and a backpack over her right shoulder.

He rubs his face and his thumb brushes over his bottom lip, a mocking echo of the care and attention Tron paid to his mouth. With a shudder Sam pushes away the memory and rises to his feet. "Yeah. Okay."

His fingers drag along the smooth edge of the tabletop while he watches the running clock. Quorra moves toward the refitted doors and, with a sigh, he breaks contact and turns his back on the tabletop and the humming servers. He follows Quorra out of the room, locks the doors behind him with the still-rusty key, and goes upstairs while a song booms through the old brick and concrete foundation.

Quorra pushes aside the machine hiding the stairs and the bright lights of the arcade spill in. Sam flinches - so much color, so much noise - and shields his eyes with his forearm. He stubs his toe on the second-to-last step, swears under his breath, and limps over to push the TRON game back into place. The jukebox changes tracks and Boston suddenly fill in the chilly early morning air.

Sam goes to the breaker to shut off the power while she picks up their helmets from the dusty air hockey table. The electronic cacophony of outdated beeps and neon lights go out in sections with each switch; Brad Delp falls silent and the jukebox darkens with the fourth switch.

He looks up at the old office; the lights inside are still on and the dusty windows glow soft gold. A memory taps at the back of his mind - a winter night, his hand in his father's, and all the arcade games lit up and waiting for him. Just three days ago he'd fallen asleep sprawled all over the musty couches, too exhausted from going through Flynn's yellowed files for the sixteenth time to go back home.

Those days are now behind him but the weight doesn't lift from his shoulders. It's simply replaced by something else, a calling so different from Flynn's.

Something moves out of the corner of his eye and his reflexes kick in, catching his helmet before it hits his left temple. He looks at Quorra, who tilts her head to the doors and pushes them open. A fresh breeze swirls in, bringing with it dried leaves that blow around his feet and into the arcade as he follows her outside. The sky is a paling shade of royal blue and the stars have almost all gone out; the moon is still high up in the sky and JetBlue roars home to LAX miles away from here. It's still cold enough for his breath to float around him in a dense white fog as he padlocks the doors. When he turns around, fingers picking through the keys for the right one, Quorra is sitting on the Ducati with her helmet in hand. She watches him keenly - _Like __a __bird._- and he knows she's just barely keeping the never-ending flow of questions in check.

"Pipers, then?" she asks as she pulls her helmet on. Her visor is up and her eyes follow Sam as he straddles the bike and moves to put his on.

"Yeah." He pauses and stares at his distorted reflection, trying to decide how to occupy her mind on the twenty-minute ride to the diner. "...you know, I met someone while I was in there. The Grid. Met someone on the Grid. He, uh, he's a friend of Dad's."

Dawn's breaking and the horizon is painted gold. He thinks about an early morning six months ago, when he told Alan he was taking over and showed Quorra the sun.

It's a new day again.

"Sam?"

He breathes out slow, can't see the fog anymore. "Used to worship him when I was a kid. Meeting him..." _The __real __him, __meant __everything __to __me._

A long second passes as he shoves his key into the ignition and then Quorra asks, "What's his name?"

Sam smiles.

"Tron."

* * *

><p><strong>Author's <strong>**Endnote: **There is one more chapter after this.


	15. Epilogue

**We ****Are ****Pilots**

**Epilogue**

"Be back in thirty-"

Quorra looks up from her tablet in time to see the door slam shut. Marvin trots over to it and sits next to her shoes, expecting Sam to return to take him along. When Sam doesn't open the door and whistle for him Marvin reluctantly joins her on the couch. She smiles and scratches behind his ears as she continues going through her inbox on the ENCOM Slate prototype. She glances at the clock on the upper right hand corner of the screen as she flicks a notification to the trash icon and expands the next message.

_9:19 __PM_. Knowing Sam she'll expect him to come back at least fifteen minutes late.

The next several emails all concern ENCOM's upcoming appearance at E3 to promote their highly anticipated reboot of the iconic TRON arcade games for the major video game consoles. She drains a box of apple juice and tosses it on the glass coffee table as she skims the contents; the last one is from Eileen, one of the main game designers, and it's asking Quorra again if she can join them since they have a leftover exhibitor's badge and she assisted them in the early stages of development. She's not sure if she belongs there with the development team, though.

"'Waste not, want not'," she reads out loud to Marvin. "Do you think I should go?"

Marvin responds with a yawn and crawls closer to her, shoves his head under her arm and whines. She realizes she'd stopped scratching him behind the ears at some point and laughs quietly as she resumes petting him.

It's 9:43 PM and she's immersed herself in a _Science _article when the doorbell rings. She lifts her eyes from a detailed breakdown and analysis of the next generation of tablet computers, frowning; who'd stop by at this hour? Marvin jumps off the couch and scampers across the floor, barking while furiously wagging his tail; curious now, she gets up to answer it.

"Mr. Bradley?"

"You _can _call me Alan, you know," he says.

She blinks at him owlishly while Marvin sits at Bradley's feet. After a moment, when he leans to the side to peer over her shoulder into the apartment, she realizes he's waiting to be invited inside.

"Sam's not here right now," she says, closing the door behind him.

"Why aren't you with him?"

She shrugs, ignoring the implication. "He, uh, he's meeting someone. Said he'll be back soon."

He nods rather than press the issue. She shifts from foot to foot, unsure of what else to do - she still feels very awkward around Tron's User, the man Sam sometimes teasingly calls "Dad" - and after a drawn-out moment turns around to go back to the couch. She hears Bradley follow her into the living room and the tap-tap-tap of Marvin's claws as he runs over to jump up on the couch next to her.

Pretending to be interested with whatever's on the tablet's screen doesn't make the pronounced silence better; she glances up every few seconds to see Bradley rock back and forth on his heels, hands shoved in his coat pockets while he stares out the sliding door to the Los Angeles skyline.

Very awkward. _Sam, __where __are __you?_

"So," Bradley suddenly says. "How's the prototype working out for you?"

"Well...the new keyboard design's better," she says, "but the pre-installed browser's taking up too much RAM."

"Been telling Ed that but he insists on increasing the RAM capacity, not stripping the browser down."

"Won't that raise the price?"

"Exactly."

Quorra wonders if that's why Bradley's here tonight. It's not the first time Ed resisted making changes to his projects, but it took a bit of office gossip, Wikipedia, and a longer explanation from Sam to understand that Ed's problem isn't just pride. If that's the case then why does Bradley want to talk with Sam about it? What can Sam do to make Ed back down - _oh_. Maybe Bradley wants to talk with both Sam and her, and have her talk Ed into modifying the source code to have it meet ENCOM's new set of goals.

_9:48 __PM. _Sam's late again, but he'd have texted her by now. If he's ignoring the notifications she programmed to remind him to get to the portal before it shuts down again she's making his life a-

Marvin suddenly lifts his head off her lap and cocks his head towards the door. She looks up at the door as well while purging her inbox of spam, and then hears the faintest echoes of footsteps and muffled voices in the hall. It must be Sam.

"..._only _an hour. Nothing's gonna happen, I swear."

Definitely Sam.

"Besides, you picked them yourself. Pretty sure they can monitor the Grid without you breathing down their necks-"

Wait, _what?_ He _didn't_.

"Oh no," she murmurs at the sound of keys jangling and glances nervously at the very oblivious Bradley. "Why'd it have to be tonight?"

Marvin jumps off the couch and bounds over to the foyer, stands at the door and wags his tail while the door unlocks. It cracks open and Sam sticks his head inside.

"Back, Marv."

She gives Bradley another look; he's turning around and taking a step towards the short hall connecting the foyer and the living room. Glancing back at Sam she sees someone standing behind him and her heart starts pounding. She clutches at the Slate with shaky fingers, trying very hard not to predict how the scene will unfold.

_This __is __bad, __this __is __bad, __you __should've __told __me __you __were __bringing __him _here_. __Why'd __you __have __to __do __it __tonight? __Why __didn't __you __tell __him __earlier __about __me __and __the __Grid?_

The Slate suddenly slips out of her grasp and lands on the floor. She hastily picks it up and notices that Bradley's looking at her instead of the people in the foyer. Sam can't see him, though, since he's herding Marv away from the hallway and inevitable freedom while talking with Tron. She narrows her eyes at his attire, wondering where else she'd seen that leather jacket.

"...name's Marvin but I just call him Marv," Sam is saying. Marvin looks at Tron and makes a low conflicted growling sound. "Hey, be nice. He's not gonna hurt you."

Quorra leans forward and back, trying to catch Sam's attention without tipping Bradley off. She partially succeeds; he gives her a half-wave as he sheds his jacket, says, "We're only gonna be here for ten minutes, then it's In-N-Out. Want us to bring you back something or-"

"Sam?"

She thinks her heart just stopped beating. Sam's face pales as he slowly turns to Bradley. From her angle she can't see the look on Bradley's face as he stares at Tron but she can imagine the expression on it.

"Alan. Uh. What are you doing here?"

"Never mind that, who the hell-"

"Now wait, this isn't-"

"Explain to me right now what-"

"Alan-1?"

Bradley pulls himself up short. Tron slowly moves around Sam to face his User fully, and it's like Flynn and Clu all over again, except they're not at the portal and nobody's after Flynn's master disk. Quorra shivers through the déjà vu and struggles with the temptation to bury her head under a throw pillow and hum to herself until everything goes away. Instead she sits on the couch, watching the potential train wreck in motion happen before her eyes.

_You __should've __told __him, __you __should've __told __him, __you __should've __told __him, __you __should've __told __him._

"What did you call me?" Bradley asks, and he sounds oddly faint.

"Alan-1. That's who you are. My User."

"What? Your _User_? How do you even know my-"

"Okay," Sam says, looking like he'd much rather be on the Tonight Show than explaining Tron's uncanny resemblance to Bradley. "Um. Look, I can explain-"

"I haven't used that name in _decades_. How the hell-he looks _exactly _like me. How is that-this is impossible-"

"It's not," Quorra hears herself say, bailing Sam out of hot water for a few seconds and earning Bradley's undivided attention. "It's very possible, Mr. Bradley-sorry, I mean, Alan. It's...I don't know how to explain."

Sam sighs and tosses his keys on the counter. "I'll do it." He walks around the counter into the kitchen and makes a beeline for the fridge. "Sit down. It's a long story and you're gonna need a beer."

"Sam-"

"Trust me."

"How can I? I don't...someone just tell me what the hell is going on. What are you hiding from me? Is this some kind of-tell me this isn't some Oedipal thing-"

"Definitely not Oedipal, I hope. Look, I'll tell you everything. _Everything_, I swear. Including..." Sam grips the fridge door handle but doesn't pull on it. "Including that night at the arcade."

Quorra finds herself staring at Marvin, who sits at Bradley's feet and looks up expectantly. When the older man does nothing to pet him or give him a treat from the glass jar on the counter he gets up and trots over to her. She strokes the top of his head while glancing at Tron, who looks torn between utter awe for his User and concern for the current situation. The look reminds her of how she felt when Sam first brought her to ENCOM Tower, and she suppresses a smile.

Bradley slowly takes a step back from Tron while Sam retrieves two bottles of beer, pauses, and puts one back. The hiss of the bottles opening is an incredibly loud sharp sound cutting through the awkward silence. She starts tapping on the Slate's darkened screen with nervous fingers while watching Sam hand Bradley a bottle and gestures for him to sit on the loveseat. She glances at Tron, who looks a bit lost; as soon as he meets her gaze she pats the empty spot next to her and he moves to her.

"Welcome to the User world," she says quietly while he slowly sits down, keen eyes darting between her, Sam, Bradley, and Marvin. She reaches over and touches the sleeve of his jacket, feeling the smooth worn texture. It smells familiar. "Where'd you get it?"

"It was Flynn's."

Bradley twitches at the name.

"Found it at the safe house," Sam explains as he sidles into the middle of the living room. "Among other things."

He grips his beer tightly, not quite looking at Bradley. She looks at Tron and marvels at the uncanny resemblance, at how much more Tron and Bradley look like each other than did Flynn and Clu.

"So," Bradley says roughly, "what the hell is going on?"

Quorra watches Sam carefully as he rubs at the label on the bottle, frowning. Then he looks up, meets her gaze, and then glances at Tron as he clears his throat.

"Remember the night you, Dad, and Lora broke into ENCOM back in '82?"

* * *

><p><strong>Author's <strong>**Endnote:** This was originally posted to the Tron Kink Meme at LiveJournal from January 1st to February 26th. Not sure why it took me until the end of October to finish cleaning it up and post it to FFN but now it's done. Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed it.

And don't worry, this is not the end.


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